


A matter of convenience

by ylc



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Insecurity, M/M, Self Confidence Issues, Some angst, Some pining, a bit of smut, but that's not really the focus, pseudo historical, self doubt, some jealousy, some misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: There comes a time when even the most fervent enemies must call a truce and what better way to cement such truce than a marriage?And if the involved parties happen to be the most troublesome members of the ruling families… well, that’s all for the best, isn’t it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… this. If you’ve read any other of my works, you might know I have a thing for royal, pseudo historical AUs. If you add the fact that I’ve been reading a ridiculous amount of GOT fanfiction (particularly if you consider I have never watched the show, nor read the books) well… here you are.  
> I just needed to get this out of my system, hence it being marked as finished. I have a few ideas of how to continue it, but that might have to wait until I’m done with Second chances (handling more than one WIP has not, historically, worked out well for me)  
> One more thing before we start: I’ve taken to heart that angels and demons think of gender as a completely optional thing and while everyone is human here (sort of?) that fact remains, so I don’t make a big deal of any gender-related things. I hope it doesn’t come across badly, but do let me know if something comes out wrong.  
> Now, without further ado, enjoy!

It is, truth be told, a good political move. Brilliant, even. One that will guarantee peace for a few years at the very least and in the face of saving thousands of lives… Well, what's a little discomfort? Surely Aziraphale can endure.

Or so he hopes. 

He had never really considered marriage, in all honesty. Who would want him, after all? Of course he's a member of the ruling family, even if not part of the main line-- he's also, technically speaking, a bastard, although that's not something he'd be called in polite society, certainly not within earshot from his older half siblings. After Michael chased out of the Kingdom the last Count who had alluded to the Duke's affair that resulted in Aziraphale being born, no one has been anything but icily polite towards him.

But while they won't stand for someone calling him _that ugly word,_ they certainly treat him as such. Raphael has been gone for so long that Aziraphale no longer remembers him, so he’s not entirely sure how he used to behave, while Uriel is mostly distant and Michael treats him like a badly trained, but cute pet. As for Gabriel… 

Well. The less said on the matter, the better. 

So, of course his impending marriage is Gabriel's idea. His half brother has been looking for ways of getting rid of him practically since he found out about his existence. And now Gabriel has finally found the perfect way to do so: by marrying him into the Vitror’s ruling family, he'll be both securing peace with their long time enemies (for a while at least) and getting rid of his troublesome half brother. 

The choice of groom is perfect too and he has no doubt that's Duke Hastur's own plan of getting rid of his own thorn in his side. Prince Beelzebub must be pleased too: everyone hates the Crowleys, including, of course, their own family, which makes Anthony James Crowley the perfect candidate for this arranged marriage. When things go pear shaped (as they inevitably will), both sides will be all too happy to get rid of the couple. 

It's brilliant, really. 

Aziraphale sighs, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He never imagined things would come to this; after joining the monastery he had assumed Gabriel would be happy leaving him well alone but alas… He should have known better, really. 

_It doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself. Gabriel will get rid of him sooner or later and at least this way, he'll serve a purpose. At least this way he'll be contributing to the greater good. 

It's of little consolation, truth to be told. 

* * *

_Engaged_. And to an Archangel, no less!

True, not a full Archangel, not by the Ecaneian’s standards, but a son of Duke Arael all the same. Aziraphale Archangel might not have any claim on his father’s various lands and assets, but he’s still a member of one of the most powerful houses on this side of the world.

Crowley isn’t entirely sure what to think.

Oh, he understands the logic behind it, terrible and cruel as it might be. Everyone in Vitror hates the Crowleys, but, as his father liked to say, they’re still here and still thriving. He’s powerful and influential, no matter what _dear_ cousin Hastur likes to think. It makes perfect sense to have him marry well and if he can be married to a technical enemy-- well, that’s even better.

That way, his eventual _tragic_ demise will be a needed evil.

He does wonder about the poor sap destined to be his husband. His family must truly hate him to put him through this. Crowley grew up knowing everyone hated him for the sake of his family name alone and was accustomed to the loneliness, but knowing the Ecaneians and their love for duplicity and _hypocrisy_ , the poor sap no doubt grew up surrounded by people who pretended to be his friends or even pretended to care for him. Fake as it was, it must have been a nice illusion, but now he’ll have to face a much darker reality.

Well, that’s beyond Crowley’s ability to fix. It’s not like he can exactly refuse; Beelzebub will have his head if he tries anything. It’s a politically advantageous move, _an honour,_ the Prince will say and Crowley would be a fool (and a dead fool at that) for refusing.

Nothing for it now.

He has a wedding to prepare for.

* * *

His side of the cathedral is filled to the brim with people Aziraphale mostly knows in passing, with his half siblings sitting at the front. Michael is wearing her armor, which prompts a scowl from Gabriel, although he quickly smooths down his expression. Since Gabriel’s the one walking Aziraphale down the aisle, all eyes are on him. Next to Michael, Uriel sits looking radiant in a perfectly tailored white suit. Aziraphale looks down at his own clothes and tries not to scowl. Vanity is so very beneath him, but this is his wedding day: couldn't his siblings extend him the courtesy of not trying to catch everyone's attention? 

He sighs, looking at the altar, where the Cardinal Metatron stands. The Queen's right hand had been most insistent on officiating the wedding, something Aziraphale is sure Vitror doesn’t approve off. But they're all playing friends now and so they didn’t exactly protest either. 

He doesn’t recognise anyone on the other side of the catedral, except for the people in the first row. Duke Ligur's expression is perfectly unreadable; next to him Count Dagon looks bored out of her mind already. Prince Beelzebub on the other hand looks _delighted,_ barely able to contain his glee. Aziraphale looks up at Gabriel and finds a matching expression on his face. 

Nothing for it, of course. 

His eyes finally land on his intended and his own companion. He recognizes Duke Hastur right away: a skin condition makes his face look a right fright and the cruel smirk he's currently sporting does him no favours: Aziraphale must admit he has always been a little terrified of him and so he quickly looks away when his eyes meet the Duke's, which just makes the other man grin some more. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down before really looking at his soon-to-be husband. 

He's not what he expected, not at all. Up until this point it hadn't even occurred Aziraphale the man could be handsome, _devilishly so_. He's all cool charm and sharp looks and Aziraphale can feel his knees going weak when the other man throws a smirk in his direction. 

Good god, how is he supposed to survive this? 

His groom is dressed in all black, as his own traditions dictate, his clothes perfectly tailored to fit him like a glove. His hair, long and red, has been pulled into a stylish side braid, which leaves his sharp features in perfect display. He wears dark lenses, which Aziraphale finds a bit odd, but they don't take away from his attractiveness: in fact, they seem to add to his air of mystery. 

Crowley smiles, cold but polite, once Aziraphale finally comes to stand in front of him, and he attempts to return the gesture. Duke Hastur leans forward to whisper something at his betrothed’s ear and the smile disappears, leaving an unhappy expression on his soon-to-be husband's face instead. Aziraphale frowns, but Crowley simply offers his hand, as tradition dictates, and Aziraphale takes a deep breath before taking it, his stomach fluttering. 

He's vaguely aware of Gabriel stepping back and of the ceremony starting, but all he can truly focus is on the hand holding his, warm and _comforting_ and he dares to think that maybe, _maybe,_ it won't be as bad as he fears. 

After all, all he can do is hope. 

* * *

Crowley watches as his intended approaches, his nerves easy to read on his face and posture. He holds back a sigh, the poor thing won’t last a week at the Vitrorian court if he doesn’t toughen up a bit. But he looks sweet and pleasant and Crowley can’t exactly say he’d prefer him otherwise.

He’s not attractive by Vitrorian standards, but he’s easy to look at. Crowley probably would have found himself staring at him all the same, had they met under different circumstances. As things stand, it doesn’t really matter whether he likes him or not: this marriage is taking place. Not even the gods themselves could stop it.

He smirks a little, quickly looking in the direction of the Metatron. The Ecaneian Queen likes to think of herself as a god, rarely showing up at any event, all too happy to deliver vaguely threatening statements when she does show up. All for the best that she didn’t come, really, although a bit odd.

He looks at Duke Gabriel, who is sporting that horribly annoying smile of his, showing his perfectly white teeth.Crowley wants to punch his smug face. As usual, Gabriel is happy to make everything about himself, puffing out his chest and strolling down the aisle as if he was the one getting married. 

_Poor sod_ , Crowley thinks, looking at his groom, who looks more miserable with every step he takes. He’s looking around the cathedral, not paying Crowley any mind, probably mourning all he’s about to lose. Crowley’s stomach clenches painfully, but he quickly shakes the feeling away: there’s nothing he can do in that particular regard.

And then _finally_ his groom’s eyes land on him and Crowley finds he can hardly breathe. They’re blue, a shade impossible to truly describe, and breathtaking all the same. Crowley’s heart comes to an abrupt stop and he finds himself throwing a smirk in the other man’s direction to cover for the sudden tightness of his throat.

He knew this marriage would be the death of him, but he didn’t quite imagine it’d be like this.

Aziraphale comes to stand in front of him and he attempts to smile reassuringly, although he’s not entirely sure it comes across that way. The other man smiles too, a fleeting thing, and Crowley’s stomach does a funny flutter. But before he can think anything about it, Hastur is whispering in his ear, his soft warning to _behave_ reminding him what’s at stake here and how he shouldn’t get too comfortable with his betrothed.

Crowley offers his hand, as tradition dictates, and turns to face the Cardinal, a look of perfect indifference on his face, although he’s terribly aware of every point of contact between him and his groom.

He’s still unsure how he feels about this whole ordeal.

But it’s not like it matters, does it?

* * *

The wedding banquet cheers Aziraphale up right away.

The ceremony is but a blur in his mind, everything having happened so fast that Aziraphale was barely aware of it. He’s overly aware of the golden ring on his finger, but he tries not to linger on that overly much. There’s nothing to be done about that now, so he figures there’s no point in thinking much about it.

He eats with gusto, happy with the menu, not paying much mind to his surroundings. As tradition dictates, he and his husband sit at the center of the main table. The highest ranked members of their families sit around them in the opposite direction, which means Prince Beelzebub sits to Aziraphale’s left, while Gabriel sits to Crowley’s right. The distance however doesn’t stop the pair from happily chattering across them, throwing in the occasional despairing comment (and veiled insult) about the couple sitting between them.

So yeah, better to focus on his food.

He looks at his new husband from the corner of his eye and finds him watching closely. There’s a curious look on his face, one which Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure how to interpret, but it makes him blush all the same. He doesn’t seem disapproving, as his siblings usually were when it came to his eating habits, but--

“You should stop staring and focus on your own food, Crowley,” Prince Beelzebub says, a cold smirk on their lips. “You’ll need your energy for _later_ .” They wiggle their eyebrows suggestively. A chuckle escapes Gabriel and Aziraphale blushes bright red; he has been carefully avoiding thinking about the marriage _consummation_ but of course now that someone has brought the subject up, it’s all he can think about.

“There’s no need to worry, your Highness,” Crowley replies airily, waving a hand dismissively. “It’ll be perfectly fine.” He squeezes Aziraphale’s knee underneath the table and it takes every bit of his self control not to jump like a frightened rabbit, although he thinks he must look like one. Crowley’s touch however is perfectly chaste, more reassuring than anything, and eventually Aziraphale relaxes, going back to his food without comment.

He finds he isn’t really hungry anymore, though. He knows what’s coming, once the dining and dancing and chatting is done; he knows what’s expected of him. For the sake of everyone’s comfort, the wedding ceremony might no longer include any kisses being exchanged, but the expectations for what comes afterwards haven’t really changed.

 _It’ll be fine_ , he tells himself, watching his husband from the corner of his eye once more. It might be a bit messy and depending on how they arrange it, it might hurt a little, he’s been told, but it’ll be over soon enough.

Thinking that doesn’t really help.

* * *

“Husband.”

Aziraphale startles, nearly dropping his dainty wine cup and Crowley rolls his eyes behind his lenses. What a skittish thing, this new husband of his is and it simply won’t do-- their odds of surviving are bad enough and with his husband’s easily startled nature…

Well. They’ll have to work on that.

“Oh, hello,” his companion replies, a nervous smile on his lips. He has a lovely smile, truth be told, and Crowley is curious about how an honest one would look like. “Lovely party, isn’t it?”

Once more, Crowley rolls his eyes. “Tolerable,” he replies. “It’d be much better if the attendants didn’t want us dead, but then it’d leave just the two of us. And there wouldn’t have been a party to begin with, I suppose.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes dramatically and blushes a second later, having realized what he’s just done. Crowley smirks, amused. “They don’t want us dead. Not just yet, anyway, so-- that’s something,” he replies, tone full of sarcasm and Crowley chuckles.

“Fair enough,” he agrees, still smiling. “Give them a few years. A decade, if we’re very lucky.”

Aziraphale hums, but nods, a sad smile on his lips. Crowley’s heart twists at the sight, but he forces himself not to linger on that. “Well, congratulations,” he says, offering a mock toast. “For being the most expendable and hated members of our families.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to chuckle, a bit bitterly, perhaps, but a chuckle nonetheless.

Well, at least they share the same fatalistic sense of humor.

Given their circumstances, he’s willing to count that as a positive thing.

* * *

It’s nearly midnight by the time Aziraphale decides he’s had enough and that he wants to retire.

There’s a part of him, the part that’s terrified of what is to come, that’s insisting he stays at the party for a little longer, that clings to the sense of security, being surrounded by people he knows (nevermind whether or not he likes them) but it is getting late and he is tired and the sooner they’re done, the better.

He looks for his husband, who is deep in conversation with Duke Ligur and Duke Hastur (well, they’re talking and Crowley is nodding along whatever they say). He quickly catches his eye and his husband nods, saying something to his companions, who snicker but let him go looking for Prince Beelzebub.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, going to search for Gabriel. He really doesn’t understand the point of this particular tradition; as if having sex with someone you don’t actually know wasn’t awkward enough, to do it with other people in the room…

“Gabriel,” he says, clearing his throat to drag his brother’s attention from his, no doubt, _riveting_ conversation. Gabriel’s companions turn to look at him like he’s a particularly bothersome pest, annoyed at the interruption, but Aziraphale tells himself not to pay them any mind. “It’s time,” he says, hoping the other man will get his meaning and his brother raises his eyebrows, amused.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Gabriel says, turning to his companions. “It seems duty calls.” The others snicker, throwing Aziraphale knowing looks and Aziraphale does his best not to blush scarlet. Gabriel chuckles, the sound forced, clapping a hand over Aziraphale’s shoulder as he leads him away from the dance floor. “Cheer up, little brother,” Gabriel tells him, as they make their way to the rooms Aziraphale was assigned earlier today. “I know you haven’t done this before, but do stop looking like you’re heading towards your execution. It’s fun, if a little messy.”

Since Gabriel hasn’t been married either, he’s not supposed to know how _this_ works either, but Aziraphale chooses not to comment. Truth to be told, sex has never held much appeal for him, so he never bothered with it, but that’s not what he’s nervous about, or at least not fully. He knows sex can be… well, _nice,_ but there’s still the little fact that he met his husband just earlier today and the sum of their interactions amounts to one single, slightly fatalistic, conversation.

“There is something I wished to discuss with you, though,” Gabriel says, the door closing after them, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Aziraphale frowns, hesitating before moving, but then Gabriel gestures for him to hurry up and so he goes searching for his night clothes. “As you know, you’ll be living at the Harkim Tower, helping your new husband oversee his duchy, and while that’s quite far away from Vitror’s capital, his territory holds strategic importance and as such, your husband has an important place in the court.”

Aziraphale hums in acknowledgment, getting undressed and redressed as quickly as he can, not entirely sure he likes where this conversation is heading. “You’re far from stupid, Aziraphale,” Gabriel tells him and Aziraphale bites his lip gently. “What you could learn-- it could help us immensely once war breaks out once more. And you know it will, this whole peace _charade_ can not possibly last.”

Aziraphale sighs. “You can not honestly believe the Vitror nobles will trust me.”

“Perhaps not,” Gabriel agrees. “But if you could find a way to earn your husband’s trust-- what you could learn, Aziraphale, would make you invaluable,” ( _would make you less expendable,_ Aziraphale hears). “You might be married now, but your foremost loyalty should be to your family.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, ignoring the pain in his chest. “I’ll try,” he says, because that’s all he can promise and because he knows Gabriel won’t drop the subject until he gets some form of acquiescence from him.

“Marvelous!” Gabriel says, clapping his hands together. “Now, shall we?” he says, standing up and heading for the door, all cheerful smiles and confident strut.

Resigned, Aziraphale follows.

* * *

As he quickly changes into his nightclothes, Crowley wonders if it wouldn’t have been better to have Hastur act as witness at his bedding. Sure, his cousin is… unpleasant and annoying, but at least he knows how to read him. Beelzebub, on the other hand--

Of course this _honour_ belongs to the highest ranked member of the household present at the wedding and, unfortunately, his and Beelzebub’s grandmothers had been sisters, which makes them cousins in the third degree or something.

Everyone in the Vitrorian nobility might hate the Crowleys, but anyone who matters is related to them.

He makes a quick work of changing, not wishing to spend more time in Beelzebub’s presence than strictly necessary. The Prince’s eyes remain fixed on some point on the ceiling and Crowley dares to think he’ll scape this ordeal unscratched.

“Crowley,” Beelzebub says and Crowley holds back a sigh. He should have known better, really. “You won’t be foolish.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replies archly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Foolishness is my middle name.”

“No, that’s James,” Beelzebub deadpans and Crowley should know that any attempts of joking would go right over their head. “But I’m serious. You won’t do anything foolish.”

“Like what?” Crowley demands, growing slightly annoyed.

“Like trust your new husband,” Beelzebub’ says, coming to stand toe to toe with him. The Prince might be short, but they have _presence_ and Crowley is hard pressed not to squirm. “If he’s anything like his siblings, he’ll try to get into your good graces.”

“I don’t have good graces,” Crowley protests softly, ignoring the little voice in his head that’s informing him just how easily Aziraphale could get past his emotional defenses.

Beelzebub watches him in silence for a beat, before nodding. “Make sure you don’t do anything foolish. The consequences would be… unpleasant,” they say, a nasty smirk on their lips.

 _More unpleasant than my head on a pike?_ Crowley wants to ask, but his good sense kicks in before he can. He nods slowly, all too aware of the gravity of their situation and wondering just how exactly he’s going to survive this.

 _He isn’t,_ of course.

Foolish of him to forget.

* * *

The wedding suite is lavishly decorated, burgundy drapes wrapped over the windows and around the bed’s frame. The ones around the bed are made of silk, transparent enough so their witnesses may… well, _witness_ their union, dark enough to provide them with some semblance of privacy.

Crowley is muttering to himself, annoyed as he examines the room. He’s trying to make up for his concerns by complaining, Aziraphale thinks, and he wonders if he should say something - reassure his companion somehow, although he’s not entirely sure how.

“We should go ahead and get undressed,” Crowley says finally, already taking off his slippers. “I don’t even know how long we have before our witnesses come and we wouldn’t want them to catch us out of bed, huh?”

Aziraphale blushes, not quite daring to look in the other man’s direction. “They’re supposed to knock before entering,” he murmurs because, well, bodies are supposed to be sacred, just to be shared with one's spouse, although--

Crowley levels him with a look, although reading his expression is a bit hard, considering the dark lenses he’s still wearing. Aziraphale had thought maybe he had some sort of light sensitivity thing, but the room is mostly dark, the oil lamps providing little illumination.

“What are those for?” Aziraphale questions and Crowley looks in his direction, confused. He’s tossed away his robe and his nightgown leaves little to the imagination. “Your lenses,” he clarifies and his companion touches the frames softly, as if he had forgotten he was using them.

“Oh,” he murmurs, fingers tapping against the frames. “It’s… umm… well, I suppose… since you’re my husband…” He takes off his lenses, very reluctantly, placing them on the night table, but not meeting Aziraphale’s curious gaze. “It’s… I should warn you, it’s not--”

But Aziraphale has already stepped into his personal space. Crowley looks at him, blinking owlishly and Aziraphale finally sees why he hides his eyes behind those lenses. “Oh,” he murmurs, breathlessly, cupping the other face without thinking, to examine his odd slithered eyes a little better.

“I told you, they’re not--” Crowley begins, but Aziraphale hurries to interrupt, sensing his companion’s discomfort.

“They’re beautiful,” he says softly. “Very uncommon, though. Family trait?”

“On my father’s side,” Crowley replies, blinking once more. “You-- you don’t mind? Cause I could keep my lenses on, if-- I mean, I’m used to--”

“If you’re more comfortable that way, then keep them,” Aziraphale says, letting go of his face, smiling sheepishly. “Otherwise… no. I meant it, they’re beautiful.”

Crowley blinks once more, gulping rather audibly, before taking a step back. “Right. Then… right,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to the floor, busying himself with undoing the laces of his nightgown. “Do you need help?” he asks, gesturing at Aziraphale’s own complicated lacing and Aziraphale shakes his head, taking a step back himself to give his companion more space. 

It doesn’t take them long to undress, neither wishing to linger on it. It’s ridiculous, really, all the ceremony surrounding the bedding-- why bother getting dressed, just to get undressed once again? And why give the newly wed couple time to undress in private if they’re going to have an audience for the next part? Surely some privacy afterwards would be much more welcome, although--

“Have you done this before?” Crowley asks, making Aziraphale look at him once more. In the low light of the room he looks almost like a ghost, all pale skin and sharp angles. He fiddles nervously with a stray lock of his hair, all his earlier easy confidence gone. “What?” he snaps after a beat, crossing his arms over his chest.

Aziraphale, who was a little distracted thinking at least now he knew how their _arrangement_ for the next part was going to be, startles.

“Nothing, sorry,” Aziraphale says, looking away, his brain catching up with his body and he tries to ignore the heat he can feel pooling at his abdomen. Crowley is rather beautiful, despite how thin and wiry he is. His hips curve just the slightest bit, his abdomen flat and taut, a mop of ginger curls between his legs and Aziraphale is suddenly all too aware of his much more plump figure and has the sudden urge to cover himself.

Crowley sighs, climbing into bed, his back at Aziraphale. God, but the more he looks at him the more beautiful he finds him and he wants-- he wants-- “Wait,” he says, climbing into bed after his husband, trying to keep his eyes from wandering southwards, clasping his hands in front of him so they might not go searching for skin to touch. “Should-- I mean-- umm… do we need to worry about bringing a babe into this mess?”

Crowley’s eyes take a far away look and then he shakes his head vigorously. “Don’t worry about that,” he replies icily, undoing the drapes knots, quickly setting them to rights. Aziraphale watches him work, wondering what exactly does that mean; has Crowley taken any precautions to avoid pregnancy, or is he simply infertile? With those small hips he imagines childbearing isn’t exactly easy, although--

“A little help here, angel?” Crowley demands, a tad annoyedly, signaling to the drapes on Aziraphale own side of the bed.

“Oh, right, right,” Aziraphale says, ignoring the way his stomach flutters at the endearment. Although is it an endearment, he wonders? Probably not the best time to be thinking about that, of course, but he can’t help himself.

“Have you done this before?” Crowley asks once again, once they’re behind the false privacy of the silk drapes.

“Not really,” Aziraphale replies, feeling himself blush furiously. He hasn’t, because he never really had much interest, although now… “Should I-- what do I--?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but his smile is fond. “Leave it to me,” he says, just as someone knocks on the door.

Well, here goes nothing.

* * *

Crowley takes a deep breath, listening to the sounds their witnesses make as they take their seats at the chairs strategically placed near the bed. He wipes his hands on the sheets, hating his silly nerves. Of course he’s never done this before, but that’s hardly the point: it can’t be terribly difficult, if even his _cousins_ have managed to figure it out.

He looks at his husband from the corner of his eye, wondering. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with all the staring from earlier: he knows he’s not exactly _enticing_ by anyone’s standards (with how terribly _wiry_ he is, it’s not exactly surprising) but there was no need to stare like that. He had hoped his husband would be at least mildly attracted to him, because otherwise this is just going to be beyond awkward, but maybe it was too much to hope.

He knows, in theory, how to do this. He’s read enough books on the subject, back when he was just a teenager trying to figure out his body’s silly urges. He’s touched himself often enough to know what he likes and how to get himself ready for it, but he doesn’t really wish to linger, he wants it over as soon as possible, actually. He can hear Duke Gabriel and Beelzebub talking to one another in hushed tones, their voices so low he can’t actually hear them over the pounding of his own heart and he thinks he really _really_ wishes he wasn’t about to lose his virginity with those two hearing and semi-watching.

He can feel Aziraphale’s hand searching for him blindly, and from the corner of his eye he can see his husband just as terrified as himself if not even more. That, for some reason, helps him center himself: it’s going to be an all around uncomfortable experience, so he might as well just get on with it.

Oh, but it’s going to hurt like hell if he’s not at least a tiny bit wet.

He turns to his husband then, pulling him into a slow kiss. Actual foreplay is definitely off the table, but kissing will buy him some time. This, at least, Crowley has done, although it quickly becomes obvious that his husband hasn’t. It’s oddly wet, too much saliva involved, but it distracts him well enough from the fact they’re being watched. He rubs himself softly, discreetly, shy of even his husband noticing, and continues kissing Aziraphale messily, giggling nervously when his companion actually bites his lip.

He hears someone (Gabriel, maybe?) clearing their throat and figures that’s enough of that. The sooner they’re done, the better, and seeing his husband is as much of a virgin as himself, he doubts it’s going to last very long.

He straddles Aziraphale in one smooth movement, his partner’s eyes going very wide once he settles himself on top of him. He’s surprisingly hard, which takes Crowley a bit by surprise, but he quickly summarizes that’s for the best: less work for him to do. Crowley smirks down at his companion and tries his damn best not to be distracted by the complicated expression on his husband’s face, reminding himself he wants this over as soon as possible.

Of course he completely underestimated how much the actual act would hurt. He has used his fingers before, but this is a whole different thing. Losing his maidenhead is meant to hurt, he knows, but he didn’t quite think it’d hurt this much.

He has gone very still, he realizes, his muscles clenching and unclenching as he tries to get used to the feeling. “Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asks, a little breathless, his hands resting gently on Crowley’s hip bones. He looks honestly concerned, beneath the clear lust in his gaze, staring at him with a soft and worried expression, one hand coming to cup his face oh-so-very-gently that Crowley thinks he might break if he carries on like this. “Just breathe, my dear. Take your time.”

Years of carefully constructing his emotional defenses so his silly emotions wouldn’t be his undoing, crumbling with just one touch and a few _kind_ words.

 _Damn it,_ he thinks, starting to move just to be contrary. It drags a sound from Aziraphale, half pain half pleasure, the hand cupping his face dropping to his hip once more. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it burns a little, the sting unpleasant enough to keep Crowley from making any sounds of his own, all too aware of their audience.

The audience Aziraphale has seemingly completely forgotten about. He’s gloriously _vocal,_ the sounds he makes making heat coil in Crowley’s abdomen. Oh, if only-- if they weren’t--

But no. That kind of thinking will get him in trouble and just as he’s been recently reminded, he needs to be smart about this. The bedding is a must after a wedding, a marriage needs to be consummated for it to be valid, hence the need of witness for the union but afterwards-- afterwards--

Oh, but how he wishes things were different.

* * *

Afterwards, they lay together in silence. Aziraphale feels boneless, satisfied in ways he didn’t think it was possible. Crowley lies very still next to him, an array of emotions reflected on his snake-like eyes, his breathing a little erratic.

He does not believe Crowley enjoyed himself too much, but he had seemed determined to be done as soon as possible so, as he had requested, Aziraphale had let him _handle it_. He had been very good at it too. Aziraphale can’t help wondering, a bit jealously, just how many other people has his husband been with.

“We have witnessed your union,” Gabriel’s voice comes from the other side of the curtains, sharply reminding Aziraphale they weren’t alone, and making him blush as he thinks of the wanton noises he made. “May the gods bless your union.”

Beelzebub repeats the blessing, his tone slightly mocking, and Aziraphale swears he can hear Gabriel’s amusement, but they’re gone shortly after. Aziraphale sighs, running his fingers through his hair.

“Are you alright?” he asks, half turning to Crowley, who has still not moved, briefly wondering if his husband would be opposed to a bit of cuddling, before promptly deciding it’d be foolish to ask.

“Fine,” Crowley replies distractedly, one hand tracing aimless circles over his abdomen as he chews his lip. “Just dandy.”

Aziraphale looks at him, desperately wanting to say something, but not having any idea of what. Crowley closes his eyes, a complicated expression on his face before he turns his back at Aziraphale. “Goodnight, angel,” he says, his tone suggesting he really _really_ doesn’t want to talk to him anymore and Aziraphale reaches for him, before letting his hand drop, biting his lip.

“Goodnight, dear,” he replies softly, turning too and closing his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep.

Maybe things will be better in the morning.

Maybe not.

* * *

Crowley covers his nostrils, forcing himself to swallow the last drop of the foul tasting potion. He hadn’t really considered the possibility of children, but that’s a complication they definitely don’t need. He does not intend to share his husband’s bed ever again, but he knows even one time might do the trick.

He looks outside the window, watching the many carriages leave the property. It had been quite the argument about where exactly to host the wedding, and in the end Beelzebub had won it. So the party took place at the Glass Palace, their winter home.

The palace is beautiful, truth be told. Crowley remembers being a child and begging his parents to take him to visit the royal family merelyso he could spend time at the gardens. His father had enjoyed being at the court a great deal, so he had often agreed. Ass Crowley grew up, he quickly decided the court life wasn’t for him, so he had stopped visiting, as much as he could.

He does not enjoy politics, nor power play, no matter how good he actually is at it. He’d be happy enough if they left him alone at Harkim, but alas, that’s not meant to be.

“Should I call you Anthony?” Aziraphale’s voice comes from somewhere behind him and Crowley turns, one eyebrow arched. “It’s just-- well, we’re married now and--”

“Crowley is fine,” he replies with a shrug. “As you’ve noticed, that’s what everyone calls me, so I’m used to it.” He smirks, approaching his husband, enjoying the way he watches him: nerves and lust battling in his eyes. “It might be a little weird, seeing you’re a Crowley now too.”

Aziraphale’s face does a complicated thing and Crowley frowns, dropping his seductive act right away, wishing to reassure him somehow but not knowing how. “I never-- I didn’t really have a family name, you know? I mean-- legally, yes, but--”

Crowley closes his eyes, telling himself that murdering his newly acquired brother-in-law wouldn’t be the wisest move, while also reminding himself he’s not supposed to get this attached to this husband of his. Their marriage is a means to an end and he’ll do well not to forget, although--

“Well, now you do,” Crowley says, with as much conviction as he can manage, his stomach fluttering funnily at Aziraphale’s luminous smile. “And since everyone hates us, you’ll find Crowleys stick together and watch each other’s backs.”

“That sounds… nice,” Aziraphale replies softly, watching him from underneath his lashes.

Crowley smiles dumbly, thinking he’s most definitely screwed.

 _He’s not going to be foolish about this,_ he tells himself, already knowing that’s a lost battle.

There’s simply no winning, when it comes to certain things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it ;) I had never actually written a one shot this long (nor a chapter this long, truth to be told) but I’m really happy with it. It took much longer to finish than I thought it would, so I’m posting it a little late, but well… I really didn’t want to wait til tomorrow ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, pretty please?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that? It’s a new chapter indeed!  
> I had lots of fun working on this AU and of course I went back to write more, but I forced myself to finish my other WIP first so I could properly focus :P But now that’s done and I’m back to this little plot bunny ;)  
> Hope you’ll enjoy it!

When Aziraphale was a child, he used to travel all the time.

He never quite knew what his mother did, but money had never seemed to be a problem and she could never stay in one place for too long, so they were constantly moving. There was a time when he resented it. He was a quiet child who struggled to make friends and the fact that he never stick around for long certainly didn’t help his social skills, but as he grew older, he learned it wasn’t so bad. If nothing else, it allowed him to see more of the Kingdom than any other commoner would ever do.

Of course, it later turned out that he wasn’t strictly a commoner, but that’s not the point.

After his mother passed away and his father came to pick him up, he never traveled again, except on the very rare occasions when Michael would agree to take him with her to the Capital. Even then though, those travels were nothing like those he remembered from his childhood, since he often traveled in a closed carriage, with the curtains drawn. 

He remembers being so jealous of Michael, who got to ride instead. Of course the one time he convinced her to teach him how to ride, he had nearly got himself killed, much to Michael’s amusement, and Gabriel’s slight horror. Why Gabriel was horrified was a bit unclear; maybe it was because the horse hadn’t managed to stomp him all over properly. Still, he imagines that kind of traveling possesses its own charm, assuming of course you can stay on the horse long enough.

“Do you know how to ride?” his husband asks and Aziraphale blushes, wondering just how long he’s been staring at the horses, which are now merrily resting before they continue their trip. Aziraphale thinks their guards are sitting a bit farther away, to give the newlyweds some privacy, although considering how little he and his husband have actually interacted, it’s probably not necessary.

“Not really,” he murmurs softly, fixing his attention on his half eaten lunch once more. “Michael tried to teach me but… I wasn’t very good.”

Judging by his husband’s raised eyebrow, Aziraphale knows he has understood that’s a bit of an understatement. He blushes some more, taking a bite of his croissant to distract himself.

“Bloodthirsty beasts, horses,” Crowley says after a bit, a small smile on his lips. “I was quite convinced the mare my father got me for my fifth birthday was out to murder me.”

Aziraphale laughs before he can think about it and then blushes some more, embarrassed. But his husband is smiling a bit wider now, pleased, as if he has accomplished quite a feat by making him laugh. “I’ll get you someone to properly teach you, if you want,” Crowley offers, softly, almost reluctantly, as if he’s expecting to be refused. “I suspect Michael wasn’t the most patient of teachers.”

“You could say that,” Aziraphale agrees, looking in the direction of the horses once more. “I think I’d like that,” he murmurs, smiling coyly. “Thank you.”

“Ngk.” Crowley makes a funny face, the kind of face that he always makes when Aziraphale thanks him for anything. He doesn’t seem used to gratitude and Aziraphale is used to always saying he’s thankful, even when he’s not, with Gabriel’s harsh lessons on the subject resonating inside his head.

They sit in silence for a while, both lost in their thoughts. They haven’t talked much, which some people might find odd considering they’ve been traveling in close quarters, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind the silence. He’s used to it and, unlike the silences between him and his siblings, this isn’t an uncomfortable one.

“Do you think--” he begins after a bit, and Crowley turns to look at him, his keen attention almost making Aziraphale falter. “Do you think we could keep the curtains open for the rest of the afternoon?”

Crowley watches him in silence, another funny expression passing over his face and he nods, looking away once more. Aziraphale smiles, a bit hesitant and reaches out to squeeze his husband’s hand, which of course, startles the other man. “Thank you,” he whispers softly, earnestly and Crowley sighs.

“You don’t need to thank me for everything,” he murmurs sulkily. “I’m your husband, it’s my job to make you as happy as possible, which given the circumstances… well, there’s not much I can do.” He smirks, but it’s full of self deprecation and Aziraphale’s heart makes a funny flip.

“It’s more than what anyone else has ever done for me,” he says, and then it occurs him he might have said too much. Crowley doesn’t comment though, simply turning his hand so they’re actually holding hands, and squeezes.

Aziraphale smiles.

* * *

It would be so much easier if his husband wasn’t so damn _endearing_.

Crowley wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, if there’s a hidden agenda in all of Aziraphale’s behaviors. He’d think that’s the case, if he was any of the other Archangels, but something about Aziraphale makes him want to trust him.

Which is foolish, of course, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

He just seems so full of open wonder, looking outside the window wistfully, asking so many questions that Crowley, who prides himself on his knowledge of the Kingdom in general and of his Duchy in particular, finds himself struggling to answer. They’re not even strategic questions, the kind of questions would-be-invaders would ask, not the sort of questions that allow you to plan for much. It’s just pure and simple curiosity, making it impossible for him not to indulge his husband’s curiosity, something that seems to delight Aziraphale to no end. He gets the impression his siblings weren’t big on questions, so all in all--

Well. It’s not like it could possibly hurt.

He never enjoyed traveling much, truth be told. He endured the trips to the court well enough when he was a child. He did like visiting the Royal Palaces, hauntingly beautiful things that they are, but once he got old enough to actually _participate_ in courtly affairs, he began resenting those trips.

Nowadays he avoids leaving Harkim whenever possible, but, unfortunately, his many duties call him to the capital often enough. Prince Beelzebub might not like him much, but they acknowledge Crowley’s many talents and is all too happy to put them to use.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye, thoughtful. He had thought he’d leave his husband behind, when he needed to travel to court, but considering Aziraphale’s childish delight in traveling, it feels _unfair._

Not that Crowley is, generally speaking, particularly concerned with _fairness,_ as anyone who knows him will be happy to testify. As far as everyone knows, he’s cunning and cruel and _selfish_ , not a single ounce of goodness in his whole being.

Except of course, that’s a total _lie_ but there’s no need to alert his husband of it just yet, is there?

He sighs, staring outside the window once more. One of the main reasons he hates going to the court these days is because it’s so damn frustrating to have to watch his every move, his every word, making sure to keep his confident facade on at all times, knowing that the slightest show of weakness could be his undoing. Like sharks with blood, Vitrorian nobles can smell weakness and they make a point of eradicating the weaker links, so those influences might not corrupt them all with their shortcomings.

Now, of course, even in the privacy of his own home, he won’t be able to shed the facade, not completely anyway. It’s _exhausting_ having to keep himself under check at all times and he’s certainly not looking forward to it. It’d be so much easier if he could trust his husband, of course, but _trust_ is a flimsy thing. Betrayal always comes from the places you least expect it. As his own father’s death proved, one should always watch one’s back, particularly when it comes to spouses whose _undying devotion_ is completely conditional.

His hand goes to his waist pocket, toying with the small ring he always carries. It used to belong to the original Lady Crowley, his actual mother, dead before she could even hold him. There’s another lesson there, one his father was always careful to remind him: love has a cost. Most of the time, it simply can’t be afforded. His parents had loved one another and both had paid the price for such foolishness.

He looks at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye once more.

His father raised no fool.

And yet--

* * *

There hadn’t been any beds at the monastery, only musty cots that were often so threadbare they did nothing to keep the cold at bay. Aziraphale remembers laying down at night, cold and hungry and so desperately _lonely,_ telling himself he didn’t mind, that if this was the price for his safety, he was happy to pay it.

Deep down, Aziraphale has always been a creature of comfort, even when he had thought himself a commoner. Even when he traveled the Kingdom with his mother, staying at smallish inns, he took comfort in lavish meals and comfortable and warm beds. His mother was never one to settle for less than what she called the most basic of _comforts._

He does not wish to complain, he really doesn’t: by all accounts they haven’t been traveling long and the carriage’s seat is long enough to fit him even if he lies down, but it’s not exactly comfortable, not even when it’s not moving. He doesn’t want to complain, because he worries it’ll annoy his husband and it’ll discourage him from ever taking him along in any trip he needs to make, but--

“Out with it already,” Crowley suddenly says, somewhat harshly, and Aziraphale can’t help but flinch, recoiling into his side of the carriage a little. His husband frowns slightly, before sighing dramatically and leaning forward, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his. “Something’s been troubling you,” he says, deadly serious. “I just-- If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, there’s nothing I can do to fix it.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Aziraphale replies, a little too quickly, guilt colouring his tone. Crowley arches an eyebrow, totally unconvinced and Aziraphale bites his lip gently, uncertain. At his father’s home he quickly learned it was better not to complain; to be _thankful_ for what he had and keep his head down, but Crowley’s tone is gentle, his concern seemingly honest enough, and the longer Aziraphale takes to answer, the deeper his frown gets. “It’s just…” he begins, hesitant, feeling silly and _childish,_ knowing his request is ridiculous but since his husband has noticed something is troubling him it’s better to get it out. “I was wondering when we’ll arrive,” he settles on answering, biting his lip once more.

“That’s not it. Or not all of it,” Crowley argues, still gentle, but still frowning, his grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightening the slightest bit.

Aziraphale sighs, resigned. “It’s just… it’s not very comfortable,” he says finally, blushing madly as his husband gazes at him with open curiosity. “Sleeping in the carriage, I mean. It’s not… I mean… I do not wish to complain, but…” he trails off, feeling very foolish and when his husband lets go of his hand, he can feel his heart sinking.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ Aziraphale reprimands himself.

Crowley leans back on his seat, considering his next words carefully. Aziraphale drops his gaze, knowing all too well he’s earned the reprimand he’s about to receive but, as usual, his husband does nothing but surprise him. “I do not like making unnecessary stops while I’m out of my lands,” Crowley explains, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I’m so used to it that I failed to realize that you wouldn’t be.” His mouth twists unhappily and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. “As soon as we’re in Harkim, I’ll make sure we stop at an inn.”

“I didn’t-- I mean, I wouldn’t want to upset our schedule of course and I understand you want to be back home as soon as possible, so--”

Crowley places a gentle finger against his lips, effectively silencing him while also stealing the air out of his lungs in the process. “Stop that,” he orders firmly. “It might sound a little paranoid, but I’d really prefer to get away from my cousins’ lands as soon as possible but once we’re out… We’ll stop, I promise.”

Aziraphale nods slowly, sensing attempting to change his companion’s mind might go badly. Besides, he really is looking forward to actually sleeping on a bed and just breathing some fresh air, stretching his legs a little. While they’ve made short stops along the way, they’ve never lingered, and while he supposes he understands his husband’s urgency to leave the capital behind, it’ll be nice to get some actual rest.

He smiles, or at least attempts to, grateful but by now knowing excessive thank yous do nothing but annoy his husband.

The small smile he gets in return warms his heart.

* * *

Crowley wants to gut the Archangels siblings.

That’s not, strictly speaking, a new sentiment, nor a particularly original one: he’s fairly certain that if asked, every noble in Vitror would like the chance to gut the smug bastards and the Ecaneian nobility probably wouldn’t let the chance go amiss either. Every single one of them would be long dead no doubt, if it wasn’t for their numbers. Murdering an Archangel isn’t the hard part, but surviving the others’ rage-- well, that’s an entirely different matter. 

Still, Crowley would very much like to give it a try.

He watches his husband, who is stretching his legs for a little while, gaze lost in the horizon, a dreamy expression on his face. Their conversations, few and short as they might have been, have painted a lively picture of what life at the Archangels’ household was like for Aziraphale. It’s clear that none of his siblings liked him very much; they barely tolerated him and they never shied from letting him know it.

It’s painful to see, really, how nervous and skittish his new husband is: terrified of speaking his mind, certain he’ll be shut down, that his opinions and his wishes matter not. It was such a simple request really, one Crowley can easily grant once they are on safer grounds and yet if he hadn’t pressed, he’s certain Aziraphale would have never told him.

They’ll need to work on that, he decides. It simply won’t do. 

“We’ve sent a messenger ahead, my Lord,” one of the guards informs him. “They should be waiting for us at the usual inn.”

Crowley nods distractedly, staring at his husband who is pacing across their small encampment, before they’re forced to be trapped inside the carriage once more.

It shouldn’t be this fascinating, Crowley thinks, to watch him move, but he finds himself staring all the same. There’s no denying that he finds Aziraphale’s form more than a little pleasing, although he knows better than to allow himself to entertain that thought for long: he’s determined to never again share his husband’s bed and yet--

He forces himself to look away. He’ll try to be a good husband, because it’s the least he can do given the circumstances, but he won’t try to be an _actual_ husband with all that implies because…

Well, that’ll just make things more difficult in the long run, won’t it?

* * *

Aziraphale had read about Harkim in preparation for his wedding, although the information he found was a bit scarce. That’s not entirely surprising: it’s not terribly wise to inform one’s enemy of one’s resources, is it? Still, he finds the reality isn’t far away from what the books said, although it’s much more humbling to actually witness it.

Harkim isn’t exactly a big duchy, but it’s a rich one, with several natural resources that include a couple of rivers and several gold and silver mines, along with some filled with rubies and diamonds. There’s also their fertile soil, where several fruits grow along with several types of grain, and let’s not forget that th north border stretches well into the open sea, while the east one adjoins with the Kingdom of Vosconia, another long time enemy of Vitror, although why exactly they’re considered enemies is anyone’s guess; the Vosconians care for little but themselves and are perfectly happy fighting inside their own borders, leaving everyone else out of them.

Harkim, therefore, is a duchy of great strategic value and the governing family never lets anyone forget it. There have been several attempts to strip the Crowleys of their power, but each heir has proven to be smarter than their predecessor and so they’ve managed to cling to their lands, although there’s no denying it’s a taxing process that no other noble family has had to endure for centuries.

Aziraphale gives his husband a considering look. They haven’t spoken that much, that’s true, but he has gotten the impression his husband is way too perceptive, although he likes to keep his cards close to his chest. He thinks that, when the time comes, it’s likely he’ll find a way around their supposedly inevitable end, but whether he’ll bother to try to save Aziraphale too is yet to be seen.

He couldn’t be blamed if he didn’t. Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t blame him and yet--

The carriage comes to a stop and he spares a quick look outside. It’s not terribly late just yet, he’d think they could still travel for a couple of hours before it gets too dark and dangerous. Still, the driver is already opening the door and Crowley has stepped outside, now offering his hand to help Aziraphale out.

They’ve come to a stop outside what looks like a smallish inn in an also smallish town. Aziraphale flushes, thinking his husband has kept his word, stopping at the first available inn even if he very much doubts it meets his regular standards.

“It’s fine if…” he begins softly, stepping closer to Crowley so they might not be overheard. “If you wish to continue traveling, find another place--”

“No need,” Crowley interrupts good naturedly, offering his arm and Aziraphale takes it without thinking, allowing himself to be lead. “This is my usual first stop, actually. After a few days of sleeping on the carriage, I’m always eager to lie down on an actual bed, not to mention in serious need of a decent meal.” He smiles, a bit forced and Aziraphale tries to smile back although the end result probably looks just as forced. “You’ll like it. I know it doesn’t look like much, but--”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply--!” he begins, blushing scarlet, and his husband chuckles, patting the arm that’s linked with his.

“It’s fine, angel,” he says, smile kind and fond. “I know,” he adds reassuringly, just as the door opens and the innkeeper, an older gentle-faced woman, comes out to greet them.

Aziraphale allows the rest of the conversation to wash over him, letting himself to be lead into what he’s assured are the inn’s best rooms. They’re on the top floor and they’re not terribly big, but they’re cozy enough, a big comfortable-looking bed in the center and just then it occurs Aziraphale this is the first time since their wedding night that they’ll be sharing a bed once more and all other thoughts fly his mind shortly after.

Oh, that’s-- that’s-- it’s not that he doesn’t want a repeat performance of their wedding night, far from it actually, and he’s hoping to have a more active role this time around, not to mention bring his husband some actual pleasure, but--

“You can take the bath first,” Crowley tells him, interrupting Aziraphale’s quickly spiraling thoughts and just then does he realize they’re alone now, the door having closed after their host. “It should be warm, according to Mrs. Evans.”

Aziraphale nods, feeling his cheeks burning and deciding a strategic retreat is for the best. Crowley is watching him funnily, a curious expression on his face, but he doesn’t add anything else and Aziraphale hurries to escape to the relatively safety of the bathroom.

Oh good god, what is he going to do now?

* * *

Crowley plops onto the bed, relishing the softness of the mattress beneath his back. He didn’t use to mind long trips, as far as he remembers, but he thinks he’s getting older. He makes a face; he’s barely pushing his thirties, he’s by no means _old_ and yet--

He closes his eyes, forcing himself to relax. He reckons they still have an hour to go, before Mrs. Evans sends someone up with their food and he could really do with a nap: even as tired as he is, he doubts he’ll get much sleep with Aziraphale lying next to him.

His eyes dart towards the bathroom’s door on their own accord and he scowls a little. He’s fairly certain his husband will make good use of the warm water, he looks like the kind of fellow who enjoys long baths. So he probably has enough time for an actual nap or maybe--

He huffs, annoyed with himself. Of course now that he has thought about it, it’s all he can think about: there’s an itch between his legs he’s not entirely sure he wants to scratch and doing it with Aziraphale so close feels… wrong, somehow. There’s always the option of asking if Aziraphale would be interested in… ah… _participating_ , but that’s a rabbit hole he does not wish to go down. It’s easy to get things mixed up, when hormones get involved, and the last thing he needs is for bothersome _feelings_ to make his marriage more miserable than it needs to be.

It’d be different if there wasn’t a death warrant hanging over their heads, of course, and he can’t help wishing that it wasn’t the case, but there’s little use on wishing for the impossible, he knows.

Still--

 _No_ , he tells himself, wrapping himself in the covers. They’re getting a bit threadbare, he thinks, but they’re still nice enough, and after so many days of traveling, a true delight to have.

He closes his eyes, allowing the warmth of the room and of his little cocoon to lull him to sleep. 

He’s tired, after all.

* * *

When Aziraphale finally makes his way out of the bathroom, dinner has already been served.

The warm water did wonders for his nerves and the sight of their meal quickly dissolves what’s left of them. Whatever might happen later tonight is not a concern right now and anyway, it’s not the sort of thing one can plan for, no sir. Better to let matters take their natural course and go with the flow.

He notices, a bit belatedly, that Crowley is nowhere to be seen. He frowns a little, looking around the sparsely furnished room. It’s gotten darker outside and most of the candles inside have gone out at some point. It takes him a bit, but once his eyes get used to the low light, he notices the breathing bundle on the bed and he can’t help the fond smile that comes to his lips.

“My dear,” he whispers, sitting at the bed edge, shaking Crowley gently. “Dinner is here.”

Crowley murmurs something, still asleep, curling into a tighter ball and Aziraphale smiles some more, endeared. He runs his fingers through his companion’s hair, marveling at the softness of his messy curls, idly wondering if Crowley would mind if he pulled at them in the throes of passion.

It’s not a thought to be considering just yet, he chides himself and shakes his husband once more to stop thinking about that.

“What?” Crowley finally asks, blinking awake. He looks content and relaxed and Aziraphale continues petting his hair affectionately. “What happened?”

“Nothing, my dear,” he replies gently. “But dinner is here and we should eat while it’s still warm.” Crowley makes a sound of agreement, attempting to disentangle himself from his sheet cocoon and Aziraphale attempts to help, trying (and failing) not to think of how adorable the other looks, all sleep ruffled.

He’s in big trouble, he thinks. Desire is one thing, of course, with its own set of dangers but affection--

Well, that’s an entirely different matter.

* * *

Crowley tries his best not to stare, but it’s not an easy task. There’s something incredibly… _fetching_ about watching Aziraphale eat, his obvious delight at every bite he takes making him all warm and tingly. He eats with abandon, all trace of self consciousness gone, not caring one bit about manners or what others might think, and the sounds he makes… good god, but it should be illegal to make those sounds!

He leans back on his seat, crossing his legs primly, ignoring the warmth curling in his gut. He remembers the sounds Aziraphale made on their wedding night, of course, and they were nowhere near as indecent as the ones he’s currently making. As Aziraphale’s tongue peeks out to chase a bit of jam, Crowley bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making an embarrassing noise, closing his eyes briefly in an attempt to recover what’s left of his sanity.

“This is very good,” Aziraphale tells him, taking another healthy bite, looking quite pleased and there’s still a tiny bit of jam on the corner of his mouth that Crowley is having trouble looking away from. “What is it?”

“Crêpes,” Crowley replies and is horrified by how breathless he sounds. “I got the feeling you might like them. Bit of a sweet tooth you’ve got.”

He realizes a second too late that was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale blushes, dropping his eyes to his plate, his previous delight at the food gone. Evidently it’s a bit of a sore spot and he had noticed that already at the wedding banquet, but Crowley got so flustered and now-- “I didn’t mean--” he begins, biting his lip. “It’s-- I-- I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Aziraphale nods, but it’s clear he’s still embarrassed and he doesn’t look up. He continues eating, more slowly and measured now, not looking as if he’s enjoying himself anymore.

Crowley holds back a sigh.

He _really really_ wants to gut his new family-in-law.

* * *

Getting ready for bed feels like a particular brand of torture.

Aziraphale feels overly aware of his husband’s presence. While his back is facing Crowley, he can tell the other man is looking at him. He should have gotten dressed for bed after his bath, to avoid having to change now, but at the moment it hadn’t occurred to him, not to mention he had been thinking (hoping) that there would far less clothes involved once they got to bed.

Foolish, really.

Crowley’s comment hadn’t seemed mocking or cruel, as his siblings’ comments on his eating habits and weight had been, but it had opened old wounds all the same. He’s aware he doesn’t have the most pleasing of figures and he imagines that compared to his husband’s trim figure, he’s positively grotesque, but he had hoped--

Well. He doesn’t know what he had hoped for.

So he changes into his nightgown quickly and efficiently, his back to his husband, to spare him the sight as much as possible. His whole face feels like it’s burning and he wants to flee the room, but he knows there’s nowhere to go. 

He sighs, climbing onto his side of the bed without looking at Crowley. He is tired and if the gods have any mercy, they’ll let him fall asleep soon enough. He does not believe he can stand to lie in bed with his husband, both too uncomfortable to breathe, let alone move.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers softly and Aziraphale half turns to face him. There’s a curious look in his eyes, something akin to regret shining in them, and perhaps a tad of pity too. It makes Aziraphale’s stomach turn unpleasantly, but he forces himself not to look away. 

Crowley opens his mouth to speak several times, looking at a loss for words, and Aziraphale shakes his head, facing away once more, not wanting to hear the other’s excuses. He understands, of course, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. “Goodnight, my dear,” he whispers softly, so low he’s not even sure Crowley can hear him.

“Goodnight, angel,” Crowley replies, tone just as low, and Aziraphale can feel him turning away, so they’re back to back and he closes his eyes forcefully, trying to ignore the tears stinging behind his eyelids.

 _It’s fine_ , he tells himself.

What was he expecting, anyway?

* * *

When Crowley wakes up the following morning, Aziraphale is gone.

It’s not like he expected any different, truth be told. Through the night, he had felt the tension his husband exuded, right up until the point he fell asleep. It took Crowley a little longer, still puzzling over how badly he had managed to mess up, and trying to come up with a way to make up for it.

 _Don’t ever mention his eating habits,_ he notes mentally, in the growing list that’s titled as “Aziraphale” inside his mind. He sits up, looking at the remnants of their dinner and groans. 

God, he’s a fool.

He stands up, and after quickly brushing his teeth, he heads downstairs, in search of a servant to ask for a bath to be drawn. They need to get moving, he knows, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take a bath first.

He finds a servant outside the main dining room and the girl hurries to comply. He moves to follow, figuring he’ll wait at the room, but that thought quickly gets dismissed when he hears laughter coming from inside the dining room.

He peers into the room, his heart beating entirely too loudly. He hasn’t had the pleasure of hearing his husband laugh all that often, but he recognizes the sound all the same. He finds Aziraphale inside, Mrs. Evans sitting in front of him, both surrounded by Crowley’s guards, all of them laughing at something, expressions of enjoyment all around.

There’s also a fresh plate of crêpes in front of Aziraphale, now almost finished, and Crowley watches him for a beat, looking content and merry, enjoying the company and the food.

 _That’s good_ , he thinks, turning around sharply and heading upstairs once more. Happiness is a rare enough commodity and he suspects it will only become more rare the longer they’re married.

So if his husband can find bits of happiness here and there, that’s good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’m writing this as the ideas come, so I don’t have much in terms of outline and so expect some random time jumps eventually :P That being said, I hope it’ll all make sense and that I don’t screw up the continuity ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the new chapter! Before we begin, let me thank the lovely eunyisadoran for offering to beta :) Again, a million thanks for the help dear! I’m sure my readers will appreciate all your effort too ;)  
> So, the first two chapters have been edited and I’ve replaced them, while also updating the fic tags, if you want to go back and re read. I made no corrections plot-wise even though we detected a couple of holes I had completely forgotten about, but for the sake of clarity, I decided to keep them in mind and integrate them later on the story ;)  
> And now, without further ado, enjoy!

“Oh!”

His husband’s quiet exclamation grabs Crowley’s attention, making him look in Aziraphale’s direction. The other man is staring outside the carriage window, his expression one of honest awe. Crowley slides closer to him, so he might figure out just what is so interesting.

Ah, it seems they’re nearly home.

While technically the Crowley’s ancient home can be considered a Castle, its “official” name is Harkim Tower, thanks to the watchtower that now they can see looming in the distance. It’s quite impressive, and not terribly practical: it’s so far up that anyone in watch duty would have a hard time communicating with the rest of the guard if something was amiss, even if they managed to see anything. The storm clouds that seem to permanently surround it don’t really help either, but that’s a bit of trivia nobody needs to know; only the most trustworthy guards get watch duty at the tower and aside from them, only the Lord of the Castle enters there.

When he was much younger, Crowley used to try to sneak after his father, curious about what the big fuss was about, his efforts often thwarted by the loyal guards. His first action after becoming Lord of the Castle was to visit the tower and he cannot deny he was disappointed: all the secrecy wasn’t because it hid something spectacular, but because it was a weak spot that could cost them dearly.

Still, from an outsider’s point of view, he can see why it’d be impressive.

“It’s useless, you know?” he says and he has no idea why. Aziraphale turns to him, frowning in confusion and he sighs. “I’ll take you up there and you’ll see for yourself.”

That would be a breach of protocol if there ever was one, and he’s certain it’ll raise a lot of eyebrows inside the Castle. Not to mention his Master of Keys will be most disappointed; Mary has been bargaining for years to be allowed to go up and despite his fondness for the woman, some things, he had told her, were off limits.

Except to his new husband, it seems. 

“The view must be wonderful,” Aziraphale says, a bright dreamy smile on his lips. “I’d be most thankful.”

If he continues smiling at him like that, there’s very little (there’s probably _nothing_ ) Crowley would deny him. Most dangerous and incredibly foolish; for someone who’s made an art of keeping his distance, Crowley is certainly being most stupid about this marriage business.

 _It’s no matter_ , he tells himself.

They’re pretty much dead anyway.

* * *

It occurs to Aziraphale that they’re taking a bit of a scenic route. He can see the Harkim Tower looming in the distance and yet they don’t seem any closer to arriving. It puzzles him more than anything, but he has yet to voice his confusion. After all, true to his word, his husband has done his best to ensure that what’s left of their trip is comfortable. They have been stopping at night, in cozy inns or at the home of someone of importance: rich merchants, town mayors, guild leaders. They stop for meals too, and Aziraphale has gotten the chance to taste Harkim’s cuisine that, while wildly different from what he’s used to, it’s delicious all the same.

He doesn’t mind taking the longer route _per se._ It’s not like he’s in any rush to get to Harkim, although he’s looking forward to visiting the Tower. As far as he knows, only the Lord of the Castle and a few guards are allowed there, so he realizes it’s a great honor and that makes him all the more eager to go there but…

There’s no rush, certainly.

Besides, he’s enjoying the scenery: Harkim offers a lot of lovely sights. And he doesn’t mind the traveling that much, although he must admit he’s finding it a bit unnerving. In all the smallish towns they’ve visited, there’s always been a small committee ready to receive them, curious about him. He feels observed, _judged,_ and for someone who has often been found lacking, it’s very nerve wracking.

Not that he’s been made feel that way, mind. The people in Harkim seem genuinely curious about their Lord’s new husband and he can’t fault them for that: Crowley is of course in charge of the ruling of the Duchy, but as his husband, Aziraphale will have some input in the decisions being made.

Maybe. Maybe not. He certainly wouldn’t blame Crowley if he didn’t trust his opinions.

He tries his best to look self assured, answering questions to the best of his abilities, smiling charmingly whenever possible. He listens and he asks questions and he receives satisfied nods for his troubles, but they never reassure him, not truly.

Like tonight. They’ve stopped at a guild’s leader house, their host a boisterous man who has _a lot of questions_ about _a lot of things_ and who keeps asking for Aziraphale’s input, despite his best attempts to let Crowley lead the conversation.

“A smart man, my husband,” Crowley declares, throwing an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, while their host smiles in satisfaction. “Don’t you agree?” Their host nods some more and Aziraphale blushes to the roots of his hair. Crowley’s tone is honest, but he remembers all too well the way his siblings used to trade veiled insults and while he can’t detect any mocking in his tone, he can’t help but be wary.

 _He wants to trust Crowley._ So far, he hasn’t seen any real reasons _not to_ , but--

But he’s not entirely sure he can.

* * *

The arrival to the Capital is a lively affair. 

Of course all the way through Harkim, they’ve encountered small committees of people eager to meet Lord Crowley’s new husband, but there hasn’t been quite as much fuss as there is at the Capital. 

Most Vitrorian nobles would be surprised to find out how much the people of Harkim like their Duke; Crowley himself is more than a little baffled by it. He thinks he has simply done as any noble is supposed to do: look out for his people, ensure peace and prosperity for everyone in his lands. 

He has been successful, more than his ancestors, mostly because he does not engage is silly skirmishes. He has long preferred the “diplomatic” approach for handling his enemies, meaning that he makes vague threats which he has no hopes of fulfilling, but that everyone seems to buy anyway. But in his opinion, nothing terribly noteworthy.

He’s well aware of his reputation all across Vitror. He’s also aware he has no hopes of sustaining it if anyone actually saw him interact with his people.

He looks at Aziraphale, who’s looking a bit overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people that have come to meet him. Commoners tend to avoid their lords, unless they need something with desperation, and so it’s no wonder this behavior strikes Aziraphale as most odd, but Crowley refuses to comment on the subject.His husband can make his own mind about his character.

“There’s an open carriage waiting for us,” he tells Aziraphale who is anxiously staring outside the window, watching people gather at the town’s entrance. “But we can stay in this one, if you’d prefer.”

It would be curious not to make a more public entrance and widely speculated about by the Capital’s habitants, but Crowley would rather keep his husband happy. He can see the way the other man keeps bouncing his knee nervously and he does not wish to make him more uncomfortable.

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale says finally, a look of determination on his face. “The open carriage is fine,” he adds, a small uncertain smile on his lips. Crowley smiles back reassuringly, squeezing his hand once as the carriage comes to a stop.

It’ll be fine.

* * *

Keeping his emotions under check was key in the Archangel’s household.

Appearances meant everything to his siblings and showing any sign of nervousness or discomfort was a sure way to get reprimanded. Aziraphale had been a little over ten, still a child really, when he first arrived into the house, but he quickly learned to keep himself quietly contained. He was expected to smile and endure, act as if everything was perfectly fine and never show the slightest hint of any emotion, never be anything but perfectly _cordial_.

So he sits in the carriage, smiling politely next to his husband, looking around without really seeing. For all he enjoyed looking outside the window on their way to Crowley’s castle, having hundreds of eyes on him makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Maybe it would have been wiser to stay within the relatively safety of seeing the world behind a window, but it’s too late now.

The trip is thankfully short and without incident.Although to be fair, he didn’t expect any different. Based on what he has seen so far of Harkim’s people, they seem to like Crowley well enough; every member of the Vitror nobility might hate the Crowleys, but it’s clear their people actually _love_ them.

It says a lot of his husband’s character, Aziraphale thinks, although he’s still reluctant to trust what he sees. Appearances can be deceiving, as he well knows.

They finally arrive to the castle’s entrance and he lets out the breath he was holding. Crowley spares a quick look in his direction, concerned, but Aziraphale hurries to smile pleasantly. If his husband sees underneath his calm facade, he doesn’t comment on it, getting out of the carriage and offering Aziraphale his hand to climb down.

At the castle’s door stand a couple of guards, flanking a tallish dark-skinned woman with a pleasant expression. Expression lines around her mouth and wrinkles around her eyes suggest that she smiles easily and often and her short dark hair frames her face perfectly. She’s pretty and seems friendly, while also having a nonsense air.

The Master of Keys, Aziraphale surmises.

He turns to his husband, expecting him to make the introductions, only to notice Crowley is nowhere to be seen. Before panic seizes him, he catches the Master’s eye and she smiles gently, before subtly pointing to the right with her head. Aziraphale looks in that direction then and what he sees steals his breath away.

Crowley is halfway kneeling on the ground, talking in hushed tones with a bunch of kids. The children are chuckling at whatever he’s saying, varying expression of delight on their faces. Something inside Aziraphale softens at the sight in a way he can’t explain.

He wonders if he’d be overstepping if he went over to his husband. He’s never been terribly good with children, truth be told, but his husband doesn’t seem to have that problem, judging by the amount of congregated children and their expressions. Just seeing Crowley you wouldn’t think he’s any good with children, seeing how cool and aloof he tends to act, but Aziraphale guesses that just goes showing how deceiving appearances might be.

Aziraphale smiles, endeared. In general, nobles don’t take the time to actually pay children any mind, not even their own. His few memories of his father are of a distant man who bestowed no affection upon anyone, nor any kind words. He can see the easy way in which Crowley talks to the kids though, tone too soft for him to catch any words. Judging by his general demeanor and the children’s reaction it must be kind enough.

Before he can make any decisions, Crowley straightens up, waving the children away, who respond with only token protest. Crowley chuckles goodnaturedly, watching them hurry towards their parents, before turning his attention back to Aziraphale and promptly blushing.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, embarrassed, cheeks aflame. “It’s… nothing.”

 _It’s not nothing_ , Aziraphale thinks, but doesn’t say it. He smiles pleasantly instead, subtly looking at the Master of Keys, waiting for introductions. “Right!” Crowley says, recovering quickly, but still blushing. “Husband, this is Ms. Mary Loquacious, Master of Keys of Harkim Tower and head of the staff. Mary, this is Lord Aziraphale, my lord husband.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” the woman replies, curtsying politely, with a pointed look in Crowley’s direction. His husband blushes some more for some reason, which puzzles Aziraphale. “And welcome back home, Your Grace.”

There’s something in the way that she delivers the title that makes Aziraphale bristle. It sounds… mocking, somewhat but Crowley either doesn’t notice or he doesn’t mind, huffing at the greeting instead. “I trust everything was well in my absence?”

“As always, my lord,” she replies calmly. There’s another conversation taking place, Aziraphale can tell, being conducted entirely by pointed looks and twists of lips, but he can’t figure out what it’s about. “As for your… _request,_ it’s been done.”

“Ah,” Crowley says, nodding. “I shall judge that for myself, shan’t I?”

“I rather thought it was a gift,” Mary replies calmly, turning on her heel as the door opens and starting to walk into the Castle. It feels like breach of protocol, or of the protocol as Aziraphale has been taught it, but he decides to follow his husband’s lead. 

“It is,” Crowley replies, fondly annoyed, if that’s possible and Aziraphale frowns. The Master grins, giving Aziraphale what she probably thinks it’s a subtle once over, expression considering. “Thoughts?” Crowley says, one eyebrow raised challengingly and Aziraphale is all too aware of the fact that he’s missing something and growing somewhere between annoyed and concerned.

“So far… not that bad.” she says and Crowley bristles, which prompts a smirk from the woman. “We’ll see, won’t we?” she asks as Crowley seethes silently, but he nods. “Dinner as usual?”

“If you please,” Crowley replies with a mocking bow and the woman chuckles, before turning on her heel and disappearing down the hall. Aziraphale frowns, watching her go, wondering what exactly has just happened.

“Shall we?” Crowley asks after a brief pause, offering him his arm and Aziraphale hurries to take it, stepping closer than strictly necessary, feeling at more than a little anxious. Crowley doesn’t comment, although he tenses a little, and Aziraphale resists the urge to pull away.

In a strange place, he’ll have to find comfort in who he knows.

And like it or not, his husband’s presence is the only familiar thing in this new home of his.

* * *

Crowley is certain that Aziraphale fancies himself a master of deception, keeping his cards close to his chest, emotions tightly under control. In reality, he couldn’t be more transparent if he tried; his confusion rolls in waves off him. It’s endearing, truly, how he tries to act like everything is perfectly fine so not to disturb him, but it simply won’t do in the long run.

“Mary is…” he begins, uncertain how to continue that phrase. ‘ _She’s not a conventional Master of Keys_ ’ would be an understatement and it really doesn’t explain much. “She was my mother’s handmaiden. After she passed away, she looked after me. Sort of.” He shrugs non committedly, unwilling to go into too much detail and yet wanting Aziraphale to understand. “She’s a good Master of Keys, if a little… you’ll get used to her. She’s nice.”

Aziraphale considers this for a beat before nodding slowly. “It’s unusual, for servants to act so casual around lords,” he says slowly, measuring his words carefully. “It took me by surprise, although given your backstory, I suppose it makes sense.” 

More than Aziraphale probably thinks; Mary and the few servants his mother brought along when she married are the only connection Crowley has to the woman he has never met and so a connection he has desperately clung through the years. It’s foolish, to depend on a memory that’s not even real and a source of comfort all the same.

He’s not ready to say that much to Aziraphale, though, and maybe he never will be. 

“Here we are,” he announces, relieved they’ve arrived at their destination. Aziraphale’s attention turns to the heavy door, expression both curious and wary and Crowley smiles affectionately, before giving him a slight push forward. “Come on, open it.”

Aziraphale hesitates, chewing his lip gently before doing as he’s told. He seems reluctant, as someone who’s expecting the worst, and Crowley’s heart aches anew: poor angel, who has yet to learn surprises can be _good things._

Or at least he hopes Aziraphale will find the surprise to his liking. Judging by the breathless exclamation that leaves his lips, Crowley thinks that’s indeed the case.

He smiles, pleased with himself.

“As I understand it, you like to read,” he says as casually as he can, watching as his husband walks into the room, looking around in wonder, not unlike a child in a candy store. “Not much of a reader myself, I’m afraid, but I trust it’s been stocked well enough.” He stays by the door, watching Aziraphale’s shifting expressions. “I’ve asked for some of the rare books you’ve mentioned. With any luck, you’ll have them by the end of the month.”

“You were listening,” Aziraphale whispers softly, almost reverently and Crowley tells himself not to feel insulted. _Of course he was listening_ , he thinks annoyedly, but Aziraphale is used to people dismissing his presence, so it’s understandable even if a little frustrating. “Thank you,” he murmurs, so bloody earnest and Crowley hums, made mildly uncomfortable by his husband’s honest gratitude.

“It’s nothing,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “As I said… anything I can do to make this more bearable.”

He’s fucked up once more, he realizes a second later, judging by the way Aziraphale’s face falls and he resists the urge to slam his head against the wall. What now? “You don’t have to,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice a barely audible whisper.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, stern, approaching him and taking his hands in his. “Please do believe it’s my pleasure to do so.”

His husband bites his lip and Crowley hurries to look away, trying to will his sudden blush away. It shouldn’t be half as distracting as it is, really, it has no right to be. “Thank you,” Aziraphale replies gently, looking at him from underneath his lashes and goddammit how is he so endearing? “How could I ever repay you?”

A couple of improper suggestions pop into the forefront of Crowley’s mind although a voice promptly informs him they’re not improper as such: they are, after all, married. If nothing else, his husband should be seeing to his _physical needs._

And he better stop that thought right there and then. “Think nothing of it,” he says, placing a soft kiss to his husband’s knuckles before pulling away. “I shall leave you to explore, then. Someone will come to fetch you for dinner.” 

His husband offers him a shy smile, but his attention is quickly swept away by the new library. Crowley smiles to himself before turning around and leaving Aziraphale to his devices, figuring he’ll be well entertained till dinner.

For his part, he could really do with a nap.

* * *

Someone clears their throat, dragging Aziraphale’s attention away from the book open in his lap. He blinks several times, realizing just how dark it has gotten inside the library. There’s not much light pouring through the windows anymore. It should be close to dinner time, he imagines, and just now he’s realizing how hungry he is.

“I thought you might want to take a bath before dinner, my lord,” the Master of Keys says with a kind smile on her face. She’s standing at the library’s entrance, slight amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Yes,that’d be nice” Aziraphale replies, blushing lightly. He has a tendency to get lost in his reading, often forgoing any other compromises, only emerging of his book-induced trance when hunger got the best of him. It was a fact that used to annoy Gabriel quite a lot, although the rest of his siblings didn’t seem to mind much.

Mary nods, gesturing to her left. “If you’d follow me this way, Lord Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale stands up, reluctantly leaving the book on the side table next to the comfy reading chair he had taken up for himself. “Aziraphale works just fine,” he says, smiling politely. He never appreciated the formalities and after what Crowley has told him of the woman, he figures there’s really no need for them. “No need for such formalities.”

“Huh,” Mary says, smiling mischievously. “Aren’t you sweet?” she continues, leading the way confidently. “Keep that up and you won’t survive the Vitrorian Court.”

He blushes bright red and Mary chuckles good naturedly. “I can see why Anthony would like you,” she continues. “You’re… refreshing.” Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure his husband likes him that much, but then he figures Mary knows him a bit better. “He’s a sweet boy too, but don’t let him know I said as much. He wouldn’t appreciate it,” she winks conspiratorially and Aziraphale smiles, a bit nervously. “Much like his mother which given the circumstances… well, it was a little frowned upon by his Lord father.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says, mostly to say something, although he doesn’t think he really does. 

“Lord Crowley was a hard man. Disciplined and so very clever, but difficult. Distant. Even more so after the Lady passed away,” she tells him, her tone wistful. “Those of us who had come with her all the way from Vosconia almost headed back directly, but-- well.” Aziraphale frowns; marriage outside one’s Kingdom isn’t common except when there’s a peace agreement at stake, like with Crowley and him, and he’s never heard of a Peace Agreement between the Vitrorians and the Vosconians, so-- “We had sworn an oath to Lady Crowley, though, so we stayed. And in my case… well, how could I leave her little babe behind?”

“You were Lady Crowley’s handmaiden, Anthony told me.”

Mary hums, nodding. “We were close. Or as close as we could be, given our status. Life at any Court can be vicious and one needs as many allies as possible, as I’m sure you know.” She stops outside a room, turning to face Aziraphale. “Which begs the question, will you be bringing any handmaidens at some point?”

Aziraphale blinks. It hadn’t occurred him that he’d need one, although Mary is right. For someone of his newfound status, it would be unheard of for them not to have a handmaiden or several, considering his new husband’s importance in Court, not to mention his riches, but he realizes he doesn’t have anyone in mind. Aziraphale was never terribly social and he lacks any confidants. Besides, since he never expected to marry, let alone so well above his own station, it never occured to him that this might be a problem.

“Don’t worry, I already have someone in mind if you need/want someone,” Mary tells him, as if reading his mind and pushing the door open. “You’ll like her, I think. She helped put the library together so… you’ll get along if nothing else.”

It’s not conventional, Aziraphale thinks, but it’ll have to do. Handmaidens are supposed to be someone you can trust in a house filled with strangers all too willing to stab you in the back (husband included) and so it should be someone of his own choosing but--

He thinks he can trusts his husband in this regard, more or less. He trusts him not to stab him in the back at the very least. So he figures he can trust Crowley’s people, even if it’s not the wisest course of action.

“There’s another matter I wished to discuss, about...” Mary continues, as Aziraphale looks around the room. It’s big and the decorations are lavish, but impersonal. He won’t be sharing his husband’s chambers, apparently and he’s uncertain how he feels about that. Mary’s continuous chatter is mercifully keeping him from examining his feelings too closely. “...the management of the household.”

“What about it?” Aziraphale asks, absentmindedly looking through the couple of chests of his belongings which have already arrived.

Mary looks at him as if he’s being deliberately dense and Aziraphale blinks, confused. The woman sighs, before quickly settling her expression back onto the usual pleasant smile. “As Antho-- I mean, Lord Crowley’s husband, you’re now in charge of his household.”

Oh. Right. Right, that’s-- that’s-- “I’m afraid I don’t-- I mean-- umm…” he trails off awkwardly, uncertain of what he can say. When a child is born into a noble house, depending on their birth order and general capabilities, they’re trained from a very early age to fulfill a certain role: for example, as the oldest, Gabriel was raised to be the family’s Heir, while Michael, with her natural ability for leading and fighting was raised to become a soldier. Aziraphale however was never meant to play any relevant role and therefore--

Well. He’s in way over his head here.

Mary bites her lip, a look of pity in her dark eyes. “I’ve been running the household ever since Anthony became the Lord of the House,” she tells him gently. “I could walk you through it, if you want. It’ll be a process though.”

Aziraphale nods, trying to keep the worse of his nerves from showing. He feels ill prepared for this whole thing: he always knew, in theory, that marriage was no easy business and that it involved a lot of work but until now he hadn’t really _thought_ about it.

He’s going to fuck it all up. And he can’t, _he really can’t,_ because that might put the whole peace agreement at stake and Gabriel will have his head if he fucks things up and--

“Don’t panic. _Breathe,_ ” Mary instructs, guiding him to sit down on the bed and only then, Aziraphale notices he’s not breathing properly. “It’s fine, really. Everything is under control.”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale murmurs, embarrassed by his reaction. “It’s just-- it’s a lot. I’m not-- It’s not--”

“It’s fine,” Mary insists, rubbing his arms comfortingly. “It’ll be fine, I promise.”

 _Doubtful,_ Aziraphale thinks.

But isn’t that a lovely thought?

* * *

“He’s ill prepared. He won’t survive the Court.”

Crowley sighs, leaning back on his seat. “I’m well aware,” he replies slowly, considering his words. “I’m doing what I can.”

“It’s not-- I mean--” Mary paces around the room, expression troubled. “What-- I mean, even the youngest children are taught the basics of conducting a marriage with a fellow noble, what--?”

“--As I understand it,” Crowley interrupts calmly, “before our marriage, Aziraphale had spent the last couple of years at a monastery somewhere, out of his siblings’ sight. You know: _out of sight out of mind._ ”

“But why--”

“Mary,” Crowley interrupts, gentle but firm. “He’s an Archangel, yes, because his father decided to give him his name, but as far as his siblings-- the only family he’s got left, mind-- are concerned, he’s a shame on the family’s good name. As such, he was to be dealt with as quickly and discreetly as possible and what better way than to send him onto a marriage that’s doomed?”

“You were always so dramatic,” his former nanny says with a roll of her eyes. “No one is trying to kill you _yet_ and no one will succeed, not on my watch.”

Crowley sighs. If only it was that simple. “Nevermind that,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The point is, Aziraphale was never meant to marry, let alone someone of my status but now that he has-- well, we’ll have to figure things out as they come up.”

The Master of Keys pursues her lips, unhappy. “Poor thing is in way over his head.”

“ _I know,_ ” Crowley insists. “But it’s not like I expect anything from him. So-- you keep running the household for all I care, and let him spend his days at his library. Let him find whatever happiness he can.”

“It’s not that simple,” Mary argues. “It’s not the done thing.”

“And since when have I bothered with the _done thing_?” Crowley argues, a tad annoyed. “I said, let him be. It’ll change nothing in the long run.”

Mary’s lips twist in an unhappy expression, completely at odds in her normally joyful face. “That way of thinking will make you miserable. More miserable, that is,” she informs him very seriously and Crowley scowls. “I know the circumstances are far from ideal but-- you could make this work, Anthony.”

Crowley huffs. “That will only complicate things in the long run.”

“You like him,” she insists, ignoring his words. “You could be happy together. I have the feeling that if you let him--”

“I’m done with this conversation,” Crowley announces, standing up abruptly and heading for the door. “Is dinner ready?”

Mary sighs dramatically, but thankfully doesn’t press.

It’s not that Crowley disagrees with her.

But it’s a foolish idea all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I hope you enjoyed the new chapter, next updates might take a bit longer because even though I know working on several WIPs rarely ever works out alright for me, I never learn from my mistakes :P  
> Anyway, as usual, thanks for reading and let me know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! This chapter was supposed to take us a bit further along the plot, but as it tends to happen, it ran away from me and took a slightly different direction :P Alas, the actual plot bits will have to wait for the next one ;)  
> So, before we begin, a very special thanks to my lovely beta eunyisadoran, whose insight has helped me improve this chapter a great deal.   
> And, without further ado, enjoy!

“--And someone must look into that leak in the armory. If it continues like that the ceiling might collapse and we don’t want that, do we? Also, I feel it’s always getting emptier? What’s going on there?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Mary replies dismissively and Aziraphale looks up from the list he’s reviewing, one eyebrow arched. The woman huffs, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Sergeant Shadwell keeps… misplacing things. It’s perfectly normal.”

“How--?” Aziraphale begins, thinking that if someone misplaced things in Michael’s precious armory back home, she’d have said someone’s head. “Why is this a thing that keeps happening? How is the Sergeant still employed? What if he’s arming a rebel group--”

“Oh, no, none of that,” Mary interrupts with a chuckle. “ _ Rebel group.  _ Gosh, you’re even more paranoid than lord Crowley and that’s saying a lot.” Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest, but the woman continues before he can. “Sergeant Shadwell is… quite a character. He’s not even actually a member of the guard.” Aziraphale gets ready to argue once again, but Mary carries on merrily. “Lord Crowley decided rather early on it was better to let him be. You’ll understand once you meet him.”

Before Aziraphale can think of an appropriate response to that, his newly appointed handmaiden intervenes. “Also, don’t get offended when he inevitably asks how many nipples you have.” Aziraphale blinks, feeling more confused by the minute. “I mean, I am in fact a  _ witch _ and I have just the two, so I don’t know what answer he’s looking for.” Mary nods knowingly, looking amused while Aziraphale looks in between the two women, feeling like he’s missing something.

“Alright then,” Aziraphale murmurs, looking back at his list. “I feel like I really don’t want to know.”

“You don’t,” Anathema agrees, and Mary nods, a slight smirk on her lips.

“Fine, crossing that out,” Aziraphale says, checking over the rest of his list. He thinks he’s getting a handle of this household management business, although it’s by no means any fun. He’d rather be locked up inside his new library reading, but he must make do. “I think that’s it for today,” he declares with a grin, turning to look at his companions.

“Right,” Mary says, with a tone that suggests that  _ no, they aren’t finished quite yet.  _ Aziraphale tries to keep his face from betraying his emotions, but judging by Anathema’s amused smile, he’s failing rather miserably. 

“What did I miss?” he asks, a bit desperately, going through his list once more. He has been writing most of Mary’s lessons down, in an effort to familiarize himself with his various duties. He reads the list every night before bed and once more after waking up and carries a shortened version of it with his list of duties for the day (according to the day of the week). After nearly a month of living in Harkim you’d think he’d have it memorized by now but--

“It’s not... it’s something a bit more… umm…” Mary begins, hesistanting for some reason. She’s usually terribly self assured, never hesitating to make any corrections or punctualizations and so her behavior makes Aziraphale a tiny bit nervous.

“People are wondering about the festival,” Anathema supplies helpfully, earning herself a pointed look from the Master of Keys. 

“What about it?” Aziraphale asks, when what he really wants to ask is  _ which festival? _ but Anathema’s tone makes him feel like he should know what she’s talking about.

“Well, for starters, is there going to be one?”

Aziraphale blinks, suddenly nervous. Damn, he can’t continue pretending he knows what they’re talking about, can he?

“It’s a Vosconian tradition,” Mary says before he can say anything though and Aziraphale smiles at her gratefully. “To celebrate your recent nuptials. It’s-- well, it usually takes place within the week of the actual marriage, but given the circumstances, I didn’t want to…  _ overwhelm you _ . Organizing a festival is a lot of work, after all.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmurs softly, biting his lip gently. “Is it… umm… shouldn’t we ask Crowley--?”

“You’re Head of the household,” Anathema reminds him, none-too-gentle. He likes the girl because she’s funny and witty and never hesitates to sharply remind him of his obligations and doesn’t let him get side-tracked-- which has been key so far since Aziraphale has a natural tendency to get distracted-- but sometimes she’s a little too…  _ rough. _

“Right. Right?”

Anathema rolls her eyes. “You’re in charge of social events,” she reminds him helpfully but coldly. “On the matters of how this household is run, your word is law. There’s no need to bother lord Crowley with such trifles.”

Right. He’s in charge of the house, of course. It’s hard to remember sometimes, as he’s used to simply adapting to the way things are instead of making the decisions himself. “Of course then, we should… start preparing for that,” he says finally, with as much cheerfulness as he can summon, and bites his lip once more when he sees the looks the women are exchanging. “Everything alright?”

“Of course,” Mary replies, a little too quickly, expression as jovial as ever. “I’ll prepare a list of the things we’ll need, shall I?”

“Yes, that’d be most helpful,” Aziraphale agrees, growing more unnerved by the entirely silent conversation the women seem to be having. “If that’s all for now-- I’ll be at the library. You’re dismissed.”

“Of course, my lord,” Mary agrees, vowing low before turning on her heel and disappearing down the hall. Aziraphale turns to Anathema, whose too pleasant expression tells him he’s most definitely missing something.

“Shall we?” Anathema says with a small smile, pointing in the direction of the library. “We have a couple of new arrivals I’m sure you’ll be very happy to see.”

The prospect of new (probably rare) books make Aziraphale forget all his previous concerns.

After all, there are more pressing matters to attend to.

* * *

“Of course we’re having a festival,” Crowley says with a roll of his eyes. “Of bloody course.”

“To be fair--” Mary begins.

“Oh, please, spare me,” Crowley argues, springing out of his seat. “You told Aziraphale it was traditional and conveniently forgot to mention I had already said no.”

“Well, now that you have a husband your opinion on such matters technically doesn’t count,” Mary points out and Crowley glares. “Oh, come on. It’s your wedding festival! It’ll be fun!”

“It’s a Vosconian tradition,” Crowley argues, arms crossed over his chest. “Is this really the time to remind my family of another one of the reasons why they want me dead?”

“No one is saying we should invite them,” Mary argues with a shrug. “Besides, you could really do with a little distraction. And your husband needs to get out of the castle for something other than running inventories.”

Crowley huffs, starting to pace around the room. “In the future, kindly keep my husband out of your  _ oh-so-clever _ schemes.”

“To be fair, that was mostly Anathema’s work,” Mary argues with an infuriating smug smile. “I think they hit off rather well, don’t you agree?”

Crowley hums, stalking towards the wine cabinet. It’s not even past midday and he’s in serious need of a drink. “I suppose,” he agrees, pouring himself a glass of wine. “He seems to have settled well enough.”

“He’s… content,” Mary agrees softly. “And if you stopped avoiding him--”

“I’m not avoiding him!” Crowley argues and Mary simply arches an eyebrow, incredulous. Crowley huffs, turning away from her, finishing his drink in just one go.

He hasn’t, strictly speaking, been avoiding Aziraphale. He happens to like to sleep late and his husband likes to have breakfast early, which basically means their mealtimes mostly don’t overlap. And of course they both have duties to oversee during the day and what little spare time his husband has, he likes to spend it at the library reading so--

He’s not avoiding him.  _ He isn’t. _

“Anyway…” Mary says entirely too cheerful after a too-long pause. “I was wondering whether or not you’d like to have something new made for the occasion.”

Crowley sighs. “I might as well,” he declares dramatically. “No reason not to look my best at a public event, afterall.”

“Sure,” Mary agrees, too easily and Crowley narrows his eyes, suspicious. The woman however only smiles some more and he sighs once again, figuring he’ll have to wait and see.

How  _ fun _ .

* * *

The castle isn’t terribly big as such, but even after a month of living here, Aziraphale still manages to get lost. For the most part, Anathema accompanies him during the day, so that’s generally not much of a problem, but the girl does occasionally disappear to run some errands of her own (or to meet with the mysterious beau that she has mentioned but has failed to introduce him to Aziraphale). Today she left to visit the town’s seamstress, since she’s looking for a new gown to wear at the festival. And since the preparations are running rather smoothly, Aziraphale figured he could spend the rest of the day at the library.

Unfortunately, he was interrupted in the middle of his reading for some minor incident in the kitchen and after sorting it out, he had attempted to go back to the library, only to find he had gotten lost.

His aimless wander finally takes him to one of the castle’s many inner gardens. He doesn’t think it’s terribly practical, to have this much vegetation growing inside and taking up space, but of course he has not voiced such thoughts out loud. They’re obviously very well taken care of, so someone must like them.

He continues down the garden path, entertaining himself by watching the many plants and small trees that grow in it. There’s a fountain somewhere, he can hear the soft sound of the splashing water although he can’t see it. He stops for a beat, looking around himself and having made a decision, he starts walking in the direction of the sound. 

The fountain, when he finds it, it’s not much to look at. It’s made of stone, not very big and the water splashes the road leading to it. Aziraphale however barely notices it, his attention having been dragged away by something else entirely.

Crowley is kneeling on the ground by a rose bush. He’s dressed in sturdy clothes, an apron tied around his waist and what looks like garden scissors in his hands. He seems to be talking to himself as he examines the bush, deadheading it.

He looks-- different, although Aziraphale can’t exactly put into words why. Of course he’s wearing something completely different from his usual clothes, but there’s something else. Something he can’t name.

Crowley’s hair is tied up in a loose bun, a few strands escaping it. Aziraphale has the sudden image of going to him and pulling his hair lose before pulling him into a kiss.

Aziraphale blushes bright red, embarrassed by his own line of thought. After a month of marriage, it’s become quite clear to him that his husband has no intention of inviting him back into his bed and he has made his peace with it. Still, there’s no denying he  _ wants _ his husband and there are days, like today, when he’s taken by surprise by the strength of his own desire.

It’s foolish, of course, to entertain such thoughts, and so he does his best not to, but--

“Good morning,” he greets affably, proud of himself for how steady he manages to keep his voice. Still, Crowley startles, surprised, and manages to slice his finger with the scissors, letting out a soft curse. “Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry!” Aziraphale apologizes, kneeling down next to this husband, taking his hands without thinking. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, examining the wound.

“It’s fine,” Crowley argues as a tickle of blood runs down his finger. “I really should be wearing gloves.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeats, feeling actually contrite, and Crowley huffs, sounding slightly amused. He doesn’t attempt to pull away though, letting Aziraphale fuss over the small wound. “Let me take you to your room and I’ll have someone fetch a doctor.”

“It’s hardly a life threatening wound, angel,” Crowley protests, but allows Aziraphale to help him up and then wide him back into the castle. “You do know our rooms are the other way, right?” he asks goodnaturedly and Aziraphale blushes some more.

“Yes, of course,” he says, starting to walk in the right direction. “I just-- Of course I know.”

Crowley chuckles, but Aziraphale detects no cruelty in it, just fondness. Although of course, that might just be wishful thinking.

Well, no use in worrying about that.

* * *

It’s cute, really, just how genuinely worried his husband is.

“There, see?” Crowley asks gently as he finishes bandaging his own finger. “Nothing to worry about and certainly no reason to get an actual doctor.”

Aziraphale pouts anxiously and it takes every bit of Crowley’s self control not to learn forward to kiss that pout away. He’s too adorable, really. “Are you sure?” his husband insists, concern still radiating from him and Crowley smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way.

“Of course,” he assures him, squeezing Aziraphale’s wrist just the slightest bit. “Positive.”

Aziraphale hums, taking Crowley’s injured hand in his and examining the bandage. There was no need for any of that, really. If Crowley had cut himself while working on the garden, he probably would have ignored it, seeing how minor it was, but Aziraphale’s fussing had felt  _ nice,  _ in spite of himself.

Crowley allows himself to bask in the warmth of having someone taking care of him, allowing Aziraphale his through examination of the bandage, hoping it’ll reassure him that he’s indeed fine. He closes his eyes, feeling relaxed, almost sleepy. It’s not common for Crowley to fell so relaxed in someone’s else presence, certainly not relaxed enough to actually stop paying any mind to his surroundings and close his eyes, but now it feels like the easiest thing in the world. He could take a short nap, he thinks, after all the room is quite warm due the sunlight coming through the open curtains and he feels totally at ease.

He imagines lying down on the comfortable bed, pulling his husband down with him, just lying comfortably in each other’s arms. It’s a silly little daydream, the sort of thing that can never come to pass and yet lovely to think about all the same. Worried as he is, Aziraphale probably hasn’t even noticed the situation they’re in, seeing this is the first he’s been into Crowley’s room and they’re both sitting on the bed, thighs touching. 

Speaking will be against his best interests, he thinks, since this quiet reprieve between them feels so comfortable. Besides, there’s nothing to say: it’s better if his desperate longing remains unspoken. Crowley was never terribly interested in marriage, but he always figured that when he eventually married, he’d try to find some amount of contentedness with his partner, but this--

“Do you do that often?” Aziraphale’s question breaks the comfortable silence they’ve fallen into and Crowley can’t help but startle a little. “Sorry,” his husband apologizes softly, dropping his eyes to the floor, letting go of Crowley’s hand.

“It’s fine,” Crowley says and he really wishes Aziraphale would stop apologizing so much, though he understands it’s not an easy thing. “And what do you mean?” he asks, thinking back to his husband’s question and finding himself confused.

“The garden?” Aziraphale replies, still not looking at him.

“Ah,” Crowley says, blushing a little. “Yes. It’s-- it’s a bit of a hobby of mine. There are actual gardeners, of course, but sometimes I-- It helps me think.”

“Is that why you were talking to yourself?” his husband asks, looking at him from the corner of his eye and Crowley blushes some more.

“That’s not... umm... I wasn’t talking to myself,” he confesses, feeling deeply embarrassed as Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, curious. “I was... umm… I talk to the plants. It helps them grow.”

There. Close enough to the truth. His husband does not need to know he actually puts the fear of him into the plants in order for them to grow better; there’s no need for him to think him weirder than he probably already does.

“I see,” Aziraphale replies, with the tone of someone who really doesn’t. Crowley sighs, but figures there’s nothing else for him to say, so they simply sit in awkward silence for a few seconds.

“Well, I’ll better be going,” Aziraphale says, standing up abruptly, his knee bumping with Crowley’s in his attempt to get away as quickly as possible. “Good day.”

Crowley watches him head for the door, while a voice in his head is shouting for him to make him stay. He hesitates for a beat, but quickly makes his decision, standing up too. “Wait,” he says and Aziraphale half turns to face him. “I… umm… I have yet to fulfill my promise.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind so they might spend a little more time together, although he’s fairly certain it’s a foolish idea.

“What promise?” Aziraphale asks, honestly puzzled, and Crowley figures this is the moment to back down. It’s a promise he shouldn’t have made to begin with, but--

“The Tower,” Crowley clarifies and Aziraphale beams, his smile so bright and sincere that it convinces Crowley he made the right choice.

If it gets Aziraphale to smile at him like that, it can only be the right choice.

* * *

The stairs going up seem never ending and Aziraphale finds himself out of breath soon enough. He would be a little more embarrassed, if it wasn’t for the fact that his husband seems to be having the same problem. It occurs to him that it can’t be terribly practical to have a tower this tall: the poor guards most feel like they’re dying once they finally reach their destination and in case of an emergency, he can’t imagine they’ll have any breath left to raise the alarm once they manage to climb back down.

There was a guard stationed just outside the tower’s entrance and the young man had looked terribly confused when Crowley informed him Aziraphale was to be allowed in, but he hadn’t protested. Anathema had said something about only the Lord of the House being allowed into the tower, but considering Crowley had offered without Aziraphale’s prompting, he had thought it wasn’t such a big deal after all.

He was mistaken, it seems.

“I told you it was useless,” Crowley tells him, stopping for a short break. Aziraphale smiles at him thankfully, taking some deep breaths in an effort to diminish the pain in his sides. “Bloody inconvenient too.”

Aziraphale lets out an amused huff, since that’s the most he can do at the moment. Crowley smiles, looking a little pained, clutching his left side. “Come on,” he says after a brief pause. “We’re close now.”

Aziraphale wants to protest, noticing his husband is in pain, but before he can, Crowley has turned around, carrying on stubbornly. Aziraphale takes another deep breath before following, wondering if the sight at least will be worth it. He also wonders when was the last time Crowley came into the tower: judging by how out of breath he is, he imagines he doesn’t come up all that often.

“Ah, finally!” Crowley exclaims before taking one last turn and disappearing from Aziraphale’s sight. He tries to hurry along to catch up with the other man and soon another door comes into sight, this one thrown wide open.

With one last effort, Aziraphale manages to make it to the door and what he sees steals his breath away in a whole different manner. His lungs are burning, but the view is what takes the forefront in his mind.

The walls are entirely made of glass, or something just as transparent but a little more sturdy, so there’s nothing blocking the view. The room lacks any furniture or decoration, but it certainly doesn’t need it: looking outside is entertaining enough.

He can see the many houses surrounding the castle and, a little farther away, the neverending fields, laid out in great splotches of greens and vibrant colors. A river runs through all of Harkim, ending at the sea shore; while Aziraphale can not see that far away, he can see the spots of blue where the river is at its widest. And in the background, he can see the mining mountains, so impossibly high their peaks are hidden by the clouds.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, and it occurs him the tower was never built as a watchtower; whoever built it clearly had other concerns in mind that didn’t involve matters of practicality. It’s beautiful and  _ useless _ in a practical sense, but certainly _ not  _ useless in a more spiritual one.

“--those are the rules,” someone is saying and that’s when Aziraphale notices that, so taken with the beauty of the place, he completely forgot he wasn’t on his own.

“ _ The rules _ ,” Crowley says, with a might roll of his eyes. “Goodness, I could swear your fiancée doesn’t even know the meaning of the word and here you are, berating me over the rules.”

“I’d never, my lord,” the young guard argues, looking slightly panicked by the implication that he’d dare to. “But it’s in the rules.”

Crowley rolls his eyes once more, and after noticing Aziraphale is paying attention to him, gestures for him to approach. Aziraphale hurries to obey, offering the guard a sheepish smile. 

“Aziraphale, this is Corporal Pulsifer. I’d think you’ve already met each other, but I also know Anathema’s tendency to forget to make proper introductions.”

_ Ah,  _ Aziraphale thinks,  _ the mysterious beau.  _ “Pleasure, Corporal Pulsifer.” The guard bows awkwardly, a nervous expression on his face, looking as someone who’s not entirely sure of the protocol given the situation. Aziraphale shuffles awkwardly, uncertain of the protocol himself: for all the lessons he received at his siblings’ home, he’s never quite sure how to act and his husband’s evident disregard for it hasn’t really helped the matter.

“Newt is fine,” the young man says with an uncertain smile. “If you don’t mind, my lord.”

Crowley rolls his eyes once more, shaking his head. “I do wonder how you and Anathema ended up together,” Crowley says and the guard’s smile takes a dreamy quality. Aziraphale smiles, endeared.

“I’m not entirely sure myself, my lord,” Newt replies, still smiling loopily. “But I thank my lucky stars everyday, all the same.”

“ _ Goodness _ ,” Crowley murmurs, nose scrunched in false displeasure. Aziraphale chuckles, amused by his husband’s dramatics. “Spare me your lovey-dovey nonsense.”

“You asked, my lord,” the guard argues with a shrug, and Crowley just rolls his eyes.

“Well, nevermind that,” Crowley declares after a brief pause. “As I said, my lord husband is to be allowed into the Tower whenever he pleases, is that clear?” Newt nods, although a bit reluctantly. 

“It’s against the protocol,” Newt points out and Crowley opens his mouth, ready to argue. The guard however, rushes to continue. “But it’ll be done as you said, my lord.”

“It’s fine if--” Aziraphale begins, because while he more or less knew very few people were allowed into the Tower, he’s beginning to understand it’s a bigger deal than he originally thought.

“Hush,” Crowley orders, throwing a sharp look in his direction. “Not you too.”

Aziraphale blushes scarlet and drops his gaze to the ground. His husband sighs, closing the distance between them and Aziraphale can’t help but flinch when his husband’s hand comes to cup his face gently. “I’m sorry,” Crowley apologizes, sounding painfully honest and Aziraphale dares to look up at him from underneath his lashes. “I just meant-- I know it’s  _ against the rules _ , but they’re silly rules to begin with so…”

Aziraphale nods slowly, not entirely convinced, especially seeing as young Newt is muttering something under his breath. Crowley throws a sharp look in the guard’s direction, silencing him immediately. Then his husband turns his attention to him once more, a gentle smile on his lips, and Aziraphale’s silly heart gives a little flutter.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, and Crowley nods once before stepping away and Aziraphale feels the overpowering urge to close the distance between them once more, the absence of Crowley’s hand on his face feeling like a missing limb It occurs him that he’s really in for a world of trouble.

It’s cruel, he thinks, that he’ll have to live with this desperate longing inside him, with his husband so close and yet so far away. The worst part, of course, is that Crowley doesn’t mean to be cruel. In fact, he’s trying to be kind and the irony of the situation isn’t lost to Aziraphale. It doesn’t feel terribly fair, but then, Aziraphale learned long ago that life rarely is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you thought and thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the newest chapter! I apologize for the late update, but this one is on the longish side so hopefully that counts for something? :P  
> As usual, a very special thanks to my lovely beta eunyisadoran, I don’t know what I’d do without you dear! :)  
> Enjoy!

_ My little love, _

_ It is my most ardent wish that there’ll be no need for this letter to ever reach you, for I’ll be at your side to impart these lessons I pretend to write down. This, however, is unlikely to come to pass: I sealed my fate long ago and I’ll consider myself lucky enough if I live long enough to hold you. _

The letter is old and wrinkled, torn at parts due how many times it’s been folded and re-folded. The delicate calligraphy is readable enough though, despite the ink having worn off as the years have passed.

_ You might think me foolish my dear, for signing my death warrant so willingly. My own father tried to persuade me not to, insisting I was young and would find love again, but I knew better: true love is too much of a precious gift to give up. _

The tale goes as it follows: Lady Ashtoreth Dowling, youngest daughter of the Count of Yosha and Vosconian Court’s resident troublemaker was on a trip along the border, chasing for trouble and finding it in the form of a monstrous wolf. Lord James Crowley, heir of Harkim, had been looking for the intruder that had came across his border and found them in the form of a woman he fell in love with right away.

The rest, as they say, is history.

_ Love, you’ll learn, is a dirty word at the Vitrorian Court. To admit you feel it is foolhardy; only those with a death wish will show their emotions. But it’s not the Vosconian way to hide what we feel and while I do not regret that I’ve changed your father’s view on the matter, I know we’ll both pay dearly for it.  _

Lady Ashtoreth Crowley died in childbirth, not getting to hold her newborn even once. Lord Crowley passed away peacefully in his sleep ten years later.

That’s what the registers show.

Neither is true.

_ I've been arguing with Mary when it'll be best for you to receive this letter. I, a silly romantic till the very end, argued it should be after you get engaged. Mary, the voice of reason and practicality, says the sooner the better. I fear she does not have much faith in your Lord father's ability to teach you about love.  _

_ In all honesty, neither do I.  _

Lord James Crowley hadn’t been a bad father, but he had been a little distant, never one to speak of his emotions. Affection, however, does not need to be spoken aloud to be real (in fact, often enough, the louder it’s proclaimed, the less genuine it is). A gentle smile, an encouraging word, the chance to avoid boring lessons, an extra cookie before bed-- when someone loves you, their love is always surrounding you. You just need to know how to look.

It had taken Crowley some time to figure it out, but he eventually had. 

_ Do not allow our doomed love story be a cautionary tale to you, my dearest. Death is warranted for every mortal, but love-- only those brave enough might find that and hold it in their hearts forevermore. Be brave, my darling. No matter the price, love is always worth it. _

The letter has been read over and over again, ever since Crowley received it on his fifth birthday. He had just been learning his letters, and even then he wasn’t much of a reader, but the words written down stayed with him all the same-- he does think his mother foolish for forsaking everything for a love that was doomed from the very beginning. He thinks his father was an even greater fool for allowing it: they both knew the risks and yet--

Crowley tapes his fingers against the desk, thinking. He hadn’t meant to re-read his mother’s letter; he just happened to find it while searching for another document. It’s terribly sentimental of him to have kept the letter for so long; it’s even more sentimental to have read it as many times as he has. He never quite could understand his mother’s logic and had often told himself that he never would but lately--

Well, lately he’s not so sure.

It’s a wildly different situation, his and Aziraphale’s. Neither of them chose this, they were forced into a marriage that was convenient for everyone but them. And yet, as much as he’s tried to deny it, even to himself, given half the chance--

He could fall in love with his husband, he really could. In fact, he suspects he might be halfway there. And the more he thinks about it, the harder it is to find any logic in continuing to fight it. Death is inevitable; his mother was right about that. And yet, while he’s alive, why should he forsake the chance to be happy? Just because it might make it worse in the long run?

_ Decisions, decisions,  _ he thinks, tapping his fingers against his desk. 

He likes to think of himself as brave.

He’s just not sure if he’s brave enough.

* * *

The room is so dusty that Aziraphale starts coughing the minute the doors open. He hides his nose in the crook of his arm until the dust has more or less settled and he lets out a loud sneeze as soon as he puts his arm down.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Anathema asks, strolling into the room confidently, totally unbothered by the dark. The curtains are drawn and the air stale, in truth the room is anything but inviting. It’s very clear that no one has been here for many years and Aziraphale scrunches his nose in displeasure-- he’ll be having words with Mary. This level of neglect cannot be permitted.

He coughs, the dust still making his nose and throat itch. He’s half tempted to leave this particular task for another day; after all, the festival is just four days away, surely there are other matters that require his attention? Checking out the castle’s unused rooms can not be that pressing, but--

He makes a face, displeased. He’s been postponing this task long enough and he doubts it’ll get any more appealing as time passes.

Anathema pulls the curtains open, the sudden light pouring into the room almost blinding. Aziraphale blinks, his eyes adjusting. The room is relatively cramped, wooden chests upon wooden chests, mismatched furniture and a mess of documents scattered over every available surface. 

Aziraphale pursues his lips, wondering how exactly this came to pass. No other room in the castle shows such lack of care and attention, or at least no other room that Aziraphale has seen and he can’t help the whole body shudder which overtakes him at the thought of more rooms as messy as this one. According to Mary, the rooms on this side of the castle have been used as storage rooms and no one has actually set foot in them for years to do anything other than shove more stuff inside.

Once more, he considers leaving the task for another day.

With a mighty sigh, he sets to his inspection. Without prompting, Anathema sets to work on the other side of the room, opening chests and looking through their contents, skimming through the documents to see what they’re about. It’s not a terribly interesting task, since most of the stuff in here does seem to be pure junk that should have been disposed of instead of stored, but Aziraphale isn’t one to do things halfway. Now that he’s started, he won’t rest until he’s inspected every inch of the room.

Shoved in the back of the room, there’s a stack of paintings, most of them damaged by age and dampness, some so battered it’s impossible to distinguish what was painted on them in the first place. Right at the bottom of the pile though, Aziraphale finds something that gives him pause.

Traditionally, every castle has a room or hall filled with the official portraits of all married heirs and their partners, going as far back as the first ones to have been given a title, the portrait of the one currently holding it hanging in a place of prominence. In those cases wherein there was more than one spouse involved, the only portrait that remains is of the parents of the house’s heir. 

Aziraphale has been to the Crowley’s family portrait room and he’s seen the last portrait hanging there. He had assumed the woman in it was Crowley’s mother, although she didn’t look like him that much. Neither did his father for that matter, although they shared the odd snake-like eyes, but Lord Crowley had been on the short side, broad shouldered and, in all truth, mean-looking.

He looks at the portrait he’s found, brow furrowed. The woman in the portrait upstairs has smallish round features, blond hair and green eyes. The one in this portrait looks very much like Crowley: she has the same auburn hair and the same sharp features, the only difference her dark eyes.

The woman is dressed in what Aziraphale has come to understand is the Vosconian fashion: dark stylish clothes, cinched at the waist, hair immaculately coiffed, not a hair out of place. Her expression is stern, but there’s a glint in her eye that suggest a mischievous nature (although this might just be Aziraphale’s reading of the painting: there’s no way to tell what the woman actually looked like).

Aziraphale bites his lip, looking in the direction of Anathema and hesitating. Anathema is Vosconian too, but from what he understands, her mother was the one who knew the former Lady Crowley. He doesn’t need confirmation, not really, the resemblance is too strong for it to be mere coincidence, but--

There’s a story there, he thinks, a story he hasn’t been told and he knows better than to pry. Still, from what he’s heard and seen, it’s clear that Crowley’s mother was well loved by both her subjects and her son, so--

“Anathema,” he calls, making the young woman look in his direction. “Help me with this, will you? We need to take it to its rightful place.”

One day, he thinks, he’d like to hear the story, from his husband, preferably.

But for now, it will remain a mystery.

* * *

“In one of the storage rooms, you said?”

From the corner of his eye, Crowley can see Mary nodding. He stares at the portrait some more, emotions swirling in his chest. He had been told often enough that he looked a lot like his mother, but in this portrait the resemblance is impossible to deny. He understands a little better now, his father’s reluctance to look at him for long and the melancholic look in his eye whenever he did.

“Maybe we should have had them cleared out a long time ago,” he murmurs, still staring at the painting, reluctant to look away, unwilling to think much about why that might be.

Mary doesn’t answer, knowing he’s not really talking to her. After his father married a second time, the portrait of him and Crowley’s mother was taken away by his stepmother’s orders. It wasn’t the thing to do, since Lady Ashtoreth was the mother of the house’s heir and Crowley guessed it went showing his stepmother’s not terribly honorable intentions, but--

Well. By then his father had been too deep in his misery to care much and Mary and the rest of the house staff were too smart to cause too much fuss, knowing it couldn’t possibly end well for them. Of course, after his father’s passing (and his stepmother's “mysterious disappearance”) the right thing to do would have been to change the portrait but alas… he never really bothered. He didn’t care much, since it was a silly tradition to begin with and it’s not like he ever visited the portrait’s room so--

But now here it is. Back to its rightful place. Except--

“Have someone move it to the right place, will you?” he tells Mary, turning on his heel, heading for the door. “And make the arrangements to have the official portrait made for me and my husband, will you?”

He wonders what Aziraphale made of the portrait. He must have questions, but it seems his husband is too respectful of his privacy to actually ask them. And while Crowley knows he means well, the lack of questions make him feel a little guilty for his lack of explanation.

He’s not sure he can explain, though.

Or maybe, he’s not sure he  _ wants  _ to.

* * *

Aziraphale stares at his reflection in the mirror, twisting and turning, so he can examine it from every angle. It’s a good fit, if he might say so himself, although he can’t help but feel a little self conscious, seeing it’s very different from his usual clothes.

“You look fine,” Anathema assures him, expression fond but exasperated. “Stop fussing.”

Before Aziraphale can protest though, the door opens, and he turns to face the newcomer. Mary gives him a not so subtle once over, nodding approvingly. “Very nice,” the woman says with a pleased smile. “I’d be surprised if your husband doesn’t decide to drag you away from the festival and into his bedroom before midnight.” She winks playfully and Aziraphale blushes as Anathema murmurs something about her having just been telling him as much. For his part, Aziraphale doubts Crowley will ever be inclined to drag him to his bedroom no matter what he’s wearing, but it’s a nice thought all the same.

It makes him feel a little more self confident at the very least.

“Yes, well, thank you,” he demurs, feeling his cheeks burning. “Is everything quite ready?” Anathema had dragged him back to his rooms to bathe and change a couple of hours ago, insisting Mary had everything under control and that all his fussing wouldn’t be doing anyone any favours, but the Master of Keys’ sudden presence makes Aziraphale wonder if something has happened.

“Yes, quite,” Mary says, approaching him. “I just came to drop this by.” That’s when Aziraphale notices she’s carrying what looks like a jewelry box. He frowns a little, confused, and Mary hurries to explain. “It’s traditional for the pair to exchange family heirlooms, so… here.”

Aziraphale takes the box from her, opening it carefully, all too aware of the way the women are staring at him. It seems important, although he can exactly pinpoint why.

“Oh,” he murmurs breathlessly as he stares at the box contents. Inside there’s a delicate white gold circlet, depicting a snake eating its tail. Snakes, he knows, are the Crowley’s house emblem and the circlet, while well cared for, looks as old as the house itself might be. 

He thinks back to the portrait in the storage room, now restored to its rightful place and yes, he thinks he remembers the circlet sitting atop Lady Crowley’s head. He carefully places it on top of his own head, turning to face the mirror to make sure it’s not crooked and he stares at his reflection for the longest time.

It feels important, somehow. A declaration of sorts.

“I thought the circlet had been lost?” Anathema is whispering to Mary and while she keeps her tone low, in the too silent room it’s easy to overhear her.

“Not lost,” Mary replies just as softly, almost reverently. “Hidden.”

_ And now found _ , Aziraphale thinks. It is important, but he still doesn’t think he understands why. Still-- “You said exchanging heirlooms is traditional,” he says, turning around to face his companions once more.

“Well, yes,” Mary says with a small shrug. “But it’s alright if you don’t--”

“Here,” he interrupts, taking off his ring. It’s not much of an inheritance, but it’s the only one he got from his father and he knows it must be valuable somehow, seeing how the rest of his siblings coveted it. None of them had been happy with their father’s decision to give it to Aziraphale, but all had known better than to actually protest, although no doubt they’d have something to say about Aziraphale giving it away so easily. “Will you give it to Crowley, please?”

“Of course,” Mary replies solemnly, taking the ring with infinite care, almost reverently. “He’ll be meeting you downstairs in half an hour or so.”

Aziraphale nods, figuring that’ll give him enough time to finish getting ready.

And to continue wondering about what has just happened.

* * *

Crowley twists his newly acquired ring nervously. The fit is a little too loose on him, but not enough to slip off his finger, although he figures he’ll have it fitted eventually all the same. It wouldn’t do for him to lose his husband’s gift, would it?

He takes a deep breath as he starts his descent downstairs. Despite the castle’s thick walls, he can hear the ruckus outside and he scrunches his nose. The capital’s inhabitants have always been fond of their festivals and their celebrations, but Crowley avoids making an actual appearance whenever possible: he’s never been much of a social creature and he has enough of pretending at the court.

Still, this is his wedding festival, and his husband has put a lot of work into organizing it, so--

He finds Aziraphale at the end of the stairs, so distracted by the noise outside that he doesn’t notice Crowley’s presence right away. All for the best, since it gives Crowley enough time to openly stare at him, and he throws a quick glare in Anathema’s direction, who just smiles innocently at him, as if she doesn’t know what she has done.

How is he supposed to keep his hands to himself with his husband looking like that, honestly? Are they trying to kill him via sexual frustration?

Aziraphale looks handsome in the Crowley family colors, his suit mostly black with red details. Peeking out from underneath the jacket collar, Crowley can see the tartan pattern his husband seems so fond of and he can’t help to smile a little. It’s a nice touch and he’ll make sure to send the tailor something as a little thank you for his hard work.

Atop of Aziraphale’s curls sits his family’s circlet. It’s a long established tradition for the new members of the house to wear it after their wedding, although his father had made sure to hide it away after his mother’s passing. His second wife had never quite forgiven him for not gifting it to her but, considering everything that came to pass afterwards, it was for the best.

Aziraphale turns to look him then and his eyes go very wide, which makes Crowley smirk just the slightest bit. He’s looking quite ravishable himself,and he’s glad it doesn’t go unnoticed by his husband.

Not that there’ll be any ravishing later, mind, but still.

“It suits you well,” he tells Aziraphale, deliberately ambiguous, and his husband smiles a bit, nervous but pleased. “Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm to take and Aziraphale nods.

And with that they head out of the Castle.

* * *

Aziraphale follows his husband out of the castle, throwing what he hopes are discreet glances in his direction. He’s gotten used to seeing Crowley in different variations of the same suit, all well fitted and elegant, but what he’s currently wearing is very different from his usual outfits.

For starters, he’s wearing a dress. It’s the kind of dress that would raise more than one eyebrow back at the Ecaneian Court; it’s as far from modest as they come. Vitrorians aren’t as concerned about keeping their bodies as covered as possible, but the dress Crowley is currently wearing is just a tiny bit shy of being actually scandalous.

The skirt is shorter on the front than the back, but the shorter side does end right underneath his husband’s knees, so it’s not completely scandalous. It’s sleeveless too, but that’s hardly important. No, the gown’s main feature is the daring low neckline and the open back.

Aziraphale knows it’s not polite to stare, but he can hardly help himself. Even with his most unflattering look, Aziraphale finds himself madly desiring his husband and with his current outfit--

Well. If someone was going to drag someone to their bedroom before the festival even properly started, it’d be Aziraphale.

Crowley isn’t wearing any accessories, probably figuring the dress was attention grabbing enough. His hair has been piled on top of his head in a messy bun and once more, Aziraphale finds himself wishing to undo it, and run his fingers through Crowley’s hair. He itches to reach out, to actually touch all the skin on display, but the only point of contact between them remains their linked arms.

Now, he tells himself sharply, is not the time to be entertaining foolish fantasies. At the end of the day, he knows they can’t amount to anything. And the longing in his chest is bad enough without him submerging in such dangerous waters. 

They finally step out of the castle and the rambunctious greeting they get from the gathered crowd promptly distracts him from his troublesome thoughts.

Better like that, really.

* * *

They make their way towards the town square slowly, seeing they run into a lot of people, all eager to greet them. A table has been set for them in the middle of the town square and several others have been placed around, all piled with food and drink. Crowley grabs a jug of wine for them before making his way to the table and Aziraphale throws a chiding glance in his direction. Crowley ignores it.

There’s no way he’s getting through this sober. Too many people, too much social interaction. Most definitely out of his comfort zone.

Once they’ve taken their seats, the entertainment for the night begins. From his experience, Crowley knows there’ll be several performances carried by various members of the capital’s inhabitants, followed by a lot of merry dancing and drinking. He sees no harm in starting early on the merry drinking and despite Aziraphale’s original disapproving stare, his husband is all too happy to share his wine.

He watches the performances, clapping politely when required. He’s seen things just like them during his time as Duke of Harkim, but Aziraphale watches with rapt attention, clapping enthusiastically and making all the appropriate awed sounds at the right places. Crowley smiles fondly at him, throwing an arm around his shoulders at some point, pulling him closer.

If pressed, he’ll claim it was the wine and that the night was cold and that he was hardly wearing anything warm, but that would be stretching the truth.

While he’s familiar enough with the performances, this is the part of every festival that he enjoys the most. He has no problem sitting idly, but he dreads having to interact with that many people: oh, sure, his people like him well enough but Crowley isn’t very social by nature and he prefers silence over the clamor of many conversations.

He’ll have to make do, of course. It’d be rude to leave early, after all.

And then he looks at Aziraphale, who seems to be genuinely enjoying himself and he figures it won’t be so bad.

* * *

Once the night’s performances are done, the dancing begins. Anathema tried to show him some of the steps of the more popular dances, but Aziraphale is a little hopeless, the footwork too tricky for him to really master it. Still, it’d be impolite to refuse the invitations to dance and so he accepts dance after dance.

Back home, it’d be unheard of a commoner to ask their lord for a dance, but the people of Harkim seem not to have any qualms about it. Aziraphale doesn’t mind, nor does he feel any real awkwardness: he imagines his siblings would have a lot to say about this particular tradition, but he’s never cared much for divisions between the social classes, nor does he see what the big deal is.

He keeps an eye on Crowley through the many dances, though, feeling an irrational flare of jealousy whenever someone approaches him and engages him in conversation. Luckily he hasn’t been asked to dance, although from what Aziraphale understood from Anathema’s explanation, that’s not how it works: Harkim’s habitants already know their Lord, but they’re getting to know their spouse and so they ask him to dance.

It doesn’t make much sense, if you ask Aziraphale, since dancing isn’t really conducive to talking, but he figures it’d be rude to point that out.

Crowley, however, does speak to a lot of people, looking totally at ease, laughing and joking with those who approach him. He smiles at Aziraphale whenever their eyes meet.Aziraphale’s stomach flutters painfully every time.

The slightly improvised dance floor is filled with couples dancing and laughing merrily. Back in Ecaneia, most dances were a series of complicated steps that involved very little touching between participants, at most a subtle touch on the arm or elbow or the occasional graze of fingertips. Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure what Vitrorian dances look like, since he was too busy panicking at his wedding to pay the dancers much mind, but as he recalls, they barely resembled a proper dance, the participants mostly twisting their bodies in curious forms. The dances of tonight are mostly Vosconian, or so Anathema had explained when she tried to teach them, and they involve much more body contact: a hand on the waist or on the shoulder and a lot of twirling around. There are slower dances and faster ones and Aziraphale can’t decide which he finds more complicated.

But it’s fun and he can admit as much, besides he’s rather looking forward to the closing dance, the one he’s supposed to share with his husband.

Assuming, of course, he can still stand on his feet by that point.

“Need a break?” Anathema asks, appearing out of thin air, sending away the approaching would-be dance partner with just a look. Grateful, Aziraphale smiles, and allows the girl to lead him back to one of the tables with refreshments. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks, pouring him another glass of wine.

“Yes, very much,” Aziraphale says, honest despite his sore feet. “But a break is very welcome.”

Anathema nods sagely and they sit in silence for a while, watching the other dancing couples. Aziraphale’s eyes go looking for his husband as usual and finds him in deep conversation with an older couple, consisting of a woman in a garish pink gown and an elaborate headdress and an older gentleman wearing an ample coat that looks vaguely military but has none of the army colours Aziraphale knows.

“That’s Sergeant Shadwell,” Anathema says, when she catches him looking. “As I’ve said before, he’s quite a character.” 

He certainly seems so, Aziraphale thinks, looking at the man curious clothing and messy appearance. He’s as far from a military man as he’s ever seen and he’s seen plenty; inevitable considering his sister’s status. Michael would have a right fit seeing any of her soldiers looking so untidy, he thinks with a smile, and can’t help the slight chuckle that escapes him at imagining Michael’s reaction.

“He doesn’t really look like an army man, despite the clothing.”

Anathema chuckles, finishing her glass of wine in one gulp. “Sergeant Witchfinder Shadwell, of the Witchfinding Army,” she says amusedly. “Do you know, he attempted to recruit poor Newt. And Newt, being his usual entirely too polite self, kind of accepted.” She smiles, fond. “He’s never been very good at saying no, but I suppose I can’t exactly complain, seeing that’s how we meet.” She stares at her glass thoughtfully, a small smile playing on her lips. “Me being a witch and all… well. Sergeant Shadwell kept insisting I had bewitched him and I suppose I sort of did, although not in the way he thinks.” She winks, mischievous and Aziraphale chuckles good naturedly.

Aziraphale himself has a few doubts about Anathema’s witching abilities, but pointing that out feels terribly rude and so he keeps his thoughts to himself. He continues watching Sergeant Shadwell instead, who seems to be in the middle of telling some tall tale, judging by his grand gestures and Crowley’s entertained smile.

“Who is the lady with him?” Aziraphale asks, his eyes drifting towards the woman once more. She must be a little younger than Sergeant Shadwell and she’s very pretty; more than a few of the people around them throwing her some interested glances, but she seems entirely too captivated by her companion to pay anyone else any mind.

“Madam Tracy,” Anathema supplies helpfully. “She runs the local brothel.”

Aziraphale nearly spits out his drink, surprised by Anathema’s casual tone. As he understands it, such things aren’t illegal in Vitror, not like they’re back home, but he imagined mentioning them would be a bit of a taboo subject, but Anathema seems perfectly at ease, even eyeing him sidelong at his reaction.

“We don’t--” he begins to explain, blushing a little. “In Ecaneia brothels are forbidden. It’s not-- one’s not-- sexual relations outside the marriage are--  _ it’s not done _ .” He finishes lamely and Anathema chuckles softly.

“Well,” she replies with a shrug. “Vitrorians believe in the same gods as Ecaneians, but they have a bit more of a loose interpretation when it comes to sex. It’s not exactly proper,” she clarifies. “But it’s hardly  _ forbidden _ . Lord Crowley was a patron of Madam Tracy’s brothel for many years.”

Aziraphale ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach, telling himself that whatever his husband used to do before marrying him is none of his concern. He also ignores the little voice in the back of his head asking just where exactly is his husband’s seeing to his physical needs now, seeing he has yet to invite Aziraphale into his bed.

“Ah, speak of the devil--” Anathema says and Aziraphale notices Madam Tracy is making her way towards them. Anathema smiles charmingly at the woman and gets a smile back for her troubles.

“My dear girl,” Madam Tracy says, leaning down to greet Anathema with a kiss on both cheeks. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I’d love to borrow your Lord for a dance, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Anathema replies, gesturing at Aziraphale, who is already standing up. His feet still hurt, but he supposes he can manage a little more dancing, if only to avoid to keep on thinking such troublesome thoughts.

“Shall we?” he says, offering the woman his arm, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach.

“Such a gentleman,” Madam Tracy says, taking his arm. “Our Anthony lucked out, didn’t he?”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply, uncertain what to say.

* * *

“How are you finding Harkim?” Madam Tracy asks, her tone kind and friendly, a smile on her lips. This is one of the slow dances, so it allows for a little talking, although Aziraphale has trouble remembering his footwork and focusing on the conversation at hand at the same time.

“It’s nice,” Aziraphale replies distractedly, counting his steps inside his head. “Very different from what I’m used to.”

“Oh, I bet,” she replies good naturedly. “I remember when I left Vosconia myself. Of course I came with a lot of friends, but it was still quite a change.”

“You came with Lady Crowley?” he asks, missing his step and nearly tumbling over. Curious, he thinks, for someone of Madam Tracy’s… profession to come along with a Lady’s entourage, but--

“Oh yes, Ashtoreth and I went way back,” she smiles fondly, lost in her memories. “I used to be a Courtesan, you see, and Ashtoreth spent too much time at the Court getting in trouble so… yes. Sisters in mischief we were, much to Mary’s eternal chargain.”

_ Courtesan _ is not a term that’s used in the Ecaneian Court, but the role does exist despite everything, although no proper Lady would be caught dead engaging in conversation with one of them. Curious, that Lady Crowley choose to associate with one and, considering the fact that Madam Tracy left the country to follow her, they must have had a close relationship indeed.

“It came as quite a surprise, that Ashtoreth decided to settle down. No one saw it coming, let me tell you, not even Mary or me. The girl always left a trail of broken hearts in her wake and no one thought she was the marrying type.” She nods to herself, smiling. “Too pretty for that. And too adventurous too. Very unlike Anthony, who’s just as pretty, but more level headed. We all knew he’d end up marrying, despite his protestations to the contrary.”

Aziraphale isn’t sure what to do with all that information, so he settles for the first thing that comes to mind. “Crowley is an important Lord. He needed to marry eventually.”

Madam Tracy waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, of course. But I meant-- well. You know what I meant.”

Aziraphale most definitely does not, but he doesn’t argue, figuring that’d be rude. “I’ve never been much of a believer in love, myself,” Madam Tracy continues, unbothered by Aziraphale’s confused expression. “But the first time I saw Ashtoreth with her husband-- well. Hard not to believe in love then. Such a hard man, James was, but he turned into putty in her hands. As so many others had before him, of course,” she says with a wink. “but it was pretty much reciprocal. I had never seen her so happy. And she knew there was great risk in marrying him, but she did it anyway, consequences be damned. Of course she paid handsomely for it,” she continues, lost in her remisence now. “But she always said any price would be too cheap for the chance of experiencing true love.”

Aziraphale feels like he’s missing something, but he has no idea what. Before he can give it too much thought though, they get interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

Aziraphale turns to find his husband waiting for him and Madam Tracy is all too happy to relinquish her hold on him, saying a quick goodbye before leaving.

“Did she talk your ear off?” Crowley asks, tone light and playful and Aziraphale’s heart gives a little flutter, warmth spreading across his abdomen.

“She is… communicative,” he acknowledges and Crowley smiles, the hand holding his squeezing softly. “I feel like she was trying to tell me something, but I’m not sure what.”

Crowley hmms, twirling him around. “Vosconians are like that, I’ve found. They never just say what they mean and they expect you to figure it out,” he shrugs non committedly. “I wouldn’t worry about it much.”

Aziraphale nods, resting his head on his husband’s chest. This, he’s been told, it’s perfectly acceptable, but his husband tenses right away. Before Aziraphale can apologize and pull away though, Crowley relaxes, resting his chin on top of his head.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale murmurs softly. “You’re a good dancer.”

Crowley huffs. “Hardly,” he argues. “But I agree. It’s… nice.”

Vosconians, Aziraphale thinks, aren’t the only ones who don’t just say what they mean.

But it’s better not to think much about it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The new chapter!  
> I’m terribly sorry about the very late update. I got a little caught up with my Big Bang fic and well… took me much longer than I anticipated :p  
> So, since you’ve waited long enough, without further ado, enjoy!

Outside, the party continues.

Music can be heard even through the thick windows, the sound of laughter carrying through the air. Inside, sounds are being made, but so quietly that none but the participants might hear them. There are wandering hands and sloppy kisses and muffled giggles and the occasional moan.

The room is warm, entirely too warm actually, but neither of the occupants really consider taking off their clothes. For now this is enough, just touching over their clothes, even if hands occasionally slip underneath. Both are drunk. Not drunk enough to not know what they’re doing, although both are happy to act like it.

In the morning, they both think, they’ll need to pretend this never came to pass. In the morning, they’ll both act as if they don’t remember what came over them. In the morning, they’ll be back to being practically strangers who happen to have shared marriage vows.

But tonight-- tonight they can pretend they’re actually a couple, that they’re in love with one another and they’re happy to be married.

A little pretending never hurt anyone.

* * *

The room is still dark when Crowley wakes up the first time.

There’s an arm wrapped around his waist, a hand sprawled over his naked stomach. He frowns, a little worried by the development, but soon enough relaxes, realizing he’s still wearing last night’s clothes. The low neckline however has left a good part of his skin uncovered and his bedmate has taken advantage of the fact.

He blinks drowsily, considering this. Last night’s memories are a bit fuzzy, but he’s fairly certain the person draped across his back is his husband. He examines the hand resting over his stomach and he quickly decides that’s indeed the case, so he closes his eyes once more, completely relaxed, feeling warm and content.

He distantly wonders how they ended up in this position. He seems to remember there was a lot of alcohol involved, but their current position can not be blamed on over indulgence of wine. No, if he’s to be honest with himself, he’s been thinking quite a lot about this and while he probably wouldn’t have said a word while sober, it got remarkably easy when drunk.

He pushes back a little, so their bodies are touching from head to toe and is rewarded with a pleased sigh from his sleeping companion, the arm around his waist tightening its hold. Aziraphale mumbles something sleepily, his nose buried in the nape of Crowley’s neck and Crowley smiles, resting his hand over his husband’s.

Lulled by his companion’s deep breaths and surrounded by warmth, Crowley quickly falls asleep once more, a sense of rightness settling firmly over him.

Everything is exactly how it was always meant to be.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes up just when the first sun rays are coming through the window.

He becomes aware of several things at the same time. Firstly, this is not his bed. His bed, while cozy enough, is not this comfortable, the mattress not quite as soft. The bedsheets are different too; while his are practical cotton (very nice cotton, but still), these ones have such a decadent quality that they must be silk. Conclusion: the bed isn’t his own.

Secondly, he’s not alone in this unknown bed. He opens his eyes to inspect his surroundings and he finds his face buried in crimson curls; entirely too familiar crimson curls at that. He can’t help himself and he takes a deep breath, nose pressed against his companion’s nape and yes, he quickly confirms his bedmate is indeed his husband: he might not have had the chance to be this close to Crowley often, but he’s all too familiar with his perfume and he’d recognize it anywhere.

The third thing he realizes is just how tightly he’s holding Crowley, not to mention the fact that his hand is resting over his partner’s naked skin. Oh, he’s not naked, he can tell that much, but the fact is a bit startling all the same: it seems he got a little too familiar with his husband last night and he’s not entirely sure how that happened.

He considers pulling away, but finds himself reluctant to do so. This is the closest he’s been to his husband since their wedding night and he does not anticipate the occasion will repeat itself anytime soon. It’s wrong to indulge, he thinks, considering Crowley seems completely unaware of the going ons, but--

“Stop that,” Crowley mumbles, before slowly turning in his arms and Aziraphale hurries to let go, blushing madly. “It’s too early for you to be thinking so loud.”

“I...umm… I just…” Aziraphale begins and Crowley groans, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s chest and rearranging his arm around his waist once more, this time Aziraphale’s hand coming to rest on the naked skin of his back.

“Sleep,” his husband orders sternly, oblivious to the riot of emotions Aziraphale is experiencing. “Now, angel.”

“Of course, my dear,” he agrees softly, not wanting to displease Crowley, telling himself one does not look a gift horse in the mouth. He’ll take what he’s given, for as long as it's offered, and he’ll worry about what it might mean later on.

For now, he’s happy to bask in his husband’s warmth.

* * *

The first thing Crowley notices upon waking up fully, is that he’s alone in bed.

This, he thinks, shouldn’t strike him as odd: before he married he never shared his bed and even afterwards he only did when he and his husband were traveling towards Harkim. And yet, the absence of another body on the bed feels odd,  _ wrong  _ somehow and he’s not sure what to make of that.

He sits up, rubbing his eyelids sleepily. Odd that Aziraphale left like that, he thinks; he does not believe his husband is truly opposed to the idea of them being this close, but quickly decides there’s no much use on worrying about it. He ignores the slight pang of hurt, telling himself it’s not that important.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Aziraphale says, now standing at the door awkwardly. “I didn’t-- I mean, I wasn’t sure--” he gestures helplessly at the bed and Crowley raises an eyebrow, mildly amused as his husband blushes bright red.

“Come back to bed, husband,” Crowley orders, tone low and seductive, or at least attempting to sound seductive. It must work somehow, judging by Aziraphale’s dilated pupils, although he imagines the picture he paints (clothes askew, hair a right mess, sleep ruffled) helps to sell it too.

“Right. Right?” Aziraphale murmurs, mostly to himself, hurrying to obey and almost falling headfirst into the bed due his eagerness. Crowley chuckles fondly and Aziraphale offers him a lopsided smile that makes his heart flutter.

Crowley smiles as his husband comes to lie next to him, looking full of hope but already bracing himself for rejection. Crowley sighs, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair gently, earning himself a contented purr. “Where did you go to?” he asks, keeping his tone soft and warm.

“Breakfast,” Aziraphale replies quietly, blushing some more. “It’s just-- I’m hungry,” he confesses, evidently embarrassed and Crowley hums, still uncertain on how to approach that particular subject, but remembering just how badly he has fucked up when the matter of food has come up in the past. “I hope you don’t mind I asked Mary to have something sent to us?”

“Not at all,” Crowley replies easily. “Although I don’t think it wise to actually have breakfast in bed. Taking jam off the sheets is a nightmare, I’ve been told.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replies softly, sounding disappointed. “That seems-- yes, of course.”

“What’s the matter?” Crowley asks, still running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair gently. It’s rather nice, he thinks, to be like this. He could certainly get used to it, although--

“I just--” Aziraphale begins hesitantly, biting his lip. “I was hoping we could stay in bed for a little longer. I don’t-- I mean-- Please don’t think that I--” He sighs, sitting up a bit abruptly and Crowley frowns, confused. “Since it’s unlikely this will happen again, I was hoping we could carry on cuddling for a little longer,” he says finally in a rush, looking mildly mortified.

Ah. Well, what can Crowley say to that? It’s not that he’s completely opposed to the idea, but it’s not that simple. But how can he explain-- 

He watches Aziraphale, who has now retreated to the other side of the bed and he wishes he could reassure him somehow, but he’s not one to make empty promises. It’s been nice, there’s no denying that, and for a while they can continue to indulge in this lovely illusion they created last night, but eventually reality will catch up with them again and Crowley won’t-- he can’t--

“If you get jam on the sheets, I’ll be ratting you out to Mary,” he says, attempting to smile and failing a bit miserably. His efforts do not go unnoticed though and Aziraphale smiles, if a bit wanly.

“Fair enough,” he agrees softly, his tone barely audible but he does slide closer to Crowley once more, cuddling to his side.

Something needs to be done, Crowley thinks. 

But that’s a problem for another day.

* * *

As much as Aziraphale is enjoying spending the day just lounging in his husband’s bed, he’s never been one to lie idly, no matter how pleasant the company. Crowley seems capable of sleeping the whole day away, but after a couple of hours of just lying there (and staring at his husband’s sleepy form) he becomes restless. Soon enough he’s forced to abandon the bed’s cocoon of warmth.

He does not wish to leave, not really. He knows this is a special occasion and that it’s unlikely he’ll be welcome back anytime soon, but leaving is for the best. Not only does he not wish to upset Crowley’s sleep, but since this won’t be a permanent arrangement, staying any longer only has the potential of making the eventual separation worse.

So he leaves the room, reluctantly, just throwing one last look in his husband’s direction. Crowley continues to sleep, dead to the world, seemingly without a care.

Oh, what he’d give to see this every morning.

But some things are just not meant to be.

* * *

Crowley wakes up alone once more and his heart constricts. As much as he enjoyed Aziraphale’s presence, he knows it’s unwise to indulge in the affection they would grow into if they spend too much time together.

Love, he knows, is a disadvantage. He knows there are several people, both dead and alive, who would love to argue the point with him, but he knows. He remembers a little of his first years: of his father’s endless misery after his mother’s death. He often wondered if such misery was a natural product of his grief, or if his father’s guilt played a role too.

It was a doomed marriage from the beginning and so is Crowley’s, although for slightly different reasons.

So no, it’s better for him and Aziraphale to keep their distance from one another.

And yet.

* * *

Aziraphale is just finishing his breakfast the next morning when he hears someone stumbling into the dinning room. He looks up from the book he’s reading, curious since he’s often left alone when he’s having breakfast.

As soon as he finds out who his visitor is, his curiosity rises.

“Morning, my dear,” he greets, putting his book away, watching Crowley as he makes his way towards him, finally dropping himself on the chair next to Aziraphale’s. His companion looks half asleep still, just grunting what’s probably supposed to be a greeting.

A few seconds later, a maid hurries into the room, pouring Crowley a fresh cup of coffee, before swiftly disappearing to fetch him breakfast. Aziraphale continues watching his husband curiously, but Crowley ignores him in favor of drinking his coffee.

“Morning, angel,” he says sometime later, after he’s finished his cup apparently. 

Aziraphale smiles softly. “May I ask what you’re doing up so early? You usually don’t raise before midday.”

Crowley shrugs, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. “I felt like having breakfast with you. But if you don’t want me to--” he starts to rise from his seat and Aziraphale hurries to reach out for him, fingers laid gently across his forearm, halting his escape.

“Of course I want you here,” he says, earnest but also knowing he’s threading on thin ice. Something’s shifting between them, a glacier pushing impediments aside so slowly it’s barely visible, but it’s changing all the same.

This, he thinks, is progress.

Crowley watches him in silence for a beat, before dropping himself back into his seat with a nod. Aziraphale smiles at him once more and watches in silence as the maid comes back with Crowley’s food.

Things are changing, slowly but changing all the same.

He can only hope it’ll be for the best.

**End of part 1.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I know, I know, it’s horribly short. This chapter however is meant to be the end of the fic’s first part. What comes next is a little exploration of the secrets and half-truths that have been hinted at so far before we get to the actual plot :P This fic will be a monster of a fic, but hopefully it’ll be an enjoyable and satisfying tale when all is said and done.  
> So, thanks for reading! Hopefully the next chapter won’t take as long, but no promises :P  
> And on a slightly unrelated note (or maybe not so unrelated?), some of you might be aware the Fandom Trumps Hate Auction is taking place again this year (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you can find more info [here. ](https://fandomtrumpshate.dreamwidth.org/)  
>  For fourth year in a row I’m offering a fic for the auction, so if you’re interested, here’s the link to my [post](https://fth2020offerings.dreamwidth.org/tag/username:+ylc).   
>  Bidding begins on monday 24th and ends on the 28th, remember, it’s for a good cause! And also be sure to check out other collaborators posts :)

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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